The Flying Scotsman
by WandererInTime
Summary: The Doctor is reunited with his old friend Perkins, when a powerful artefact – hidden aboard the Flying Scotsman – is stolen. A Twelfth Doctor Christmas special.
1. The Most Famous Train in History

_22_ _nd_ _December 1929_

A piercing whistle split the air in the otherwise quiet rustic countryside. A thin crust of snow covered the fields, as well as the distant, rolling hills. As the ground began to tremble, a small hare looked up sharply, and bounded away.

A beast of a locomotive hurtled past, belching a great cloud of black steam.

A brilliant flash of apple green! Trailing behind, two score carriages, painted cream, auburn, midnight blue.

Within a minute, it was gone. The snowy countryside was still once more. The land branded by the iron tracks was the only indication of civilisation.

However, the landscape was all well and good: scenic, quaint, almost – but by no means remarkable. The train, on the other hand…

There were two interesting things about this train, travelling non-stop from London to Edinburgh at 90 miles per hour.

First: it was the most famous train in history, the engine preserved for centuries along with its name and number; lovingly restored, in minute detail, by passionate, extraordinary people – people who dreamt of keeping the memory of the age of steam alive.

Second: an ancient artefact – from another world – was on board the train at this particular moment. It was an object highly sought after. Legend told that it wielded great power. Power, so great, that if it were to fall into the wrong hands… bad stuff would probably happen.

Third – yes, third: there could only be one thing that linked the first and second things together. Well, one _person_. The Doctor.

"Get out of the way!" the Doctor yelled, charging along a carriage, about halfway down the train.

The carriage jolted sharply, and the Doctor's arms flailed, as he almost lost his balance navigating the narrow, bustling corridor.

He risked a glance behind him, to check if he was still being followed. Inevitably, he was. Those guys weren't about to give up the chase without obtaining their prize.

The Doctor wrestled his way through a doorway, locking it behind him with the sonic screwdriver. Not that that would stop them. It hadn't on the previous fourteen doors. His pursuers merely smashed through them, or blasted the locks with energy weapons. However, the Doctor was a little sentimental, and he wouldn't want the sonic screwdriver to feel left out.

Ignoring the bemused looks people gave him as he dashed through the compartment, the Doctor patted his pocket, in a hearts-stopping moment of panic.

Surely, he hadn't lost the most dangerous relic in his possession – the same relic that a bunch of rather angry mercenaries were after.

No – it was still there, the Doctor realised, with an exasperated sigh of relief. He pulled it out of the pocket of his velvet jacket, just to make sure.

It was a metal disc – no bigger than a coaster. The thing was intricately engraved, not unlike the patterns of a snowflake – and probably just as unique. Certainly, the Doctor had never stumbled across an object like it. Not knowingly, anyway.

He slipped it back into his pocket, and picked up the pace again. Judging by the splintering of wood, and the terrified screams of the human passengers, they were not far behind.

The train rocked side to side, throwing the Doctor against the cold window pane, which gave him a moment to notice that the English countryside had fallen away, and they were now passing over a viaduct.

Lovely as it was, now was not the time to enjoy the view. The Doctor continued through the compartments, sidling past people wandering along the narrow corridor. He attempted to blend in, mainly by apologising to them as he pushed them out of his way.

It took the Doctor ten minutes to reach the coal tender at the head of the train, and a further five to argue with the engine driver and the fireman about what he was doing there. They weren't convinced by his bluff, even with a pass issued by the LNER, forged by the psychic paper. However, they didn't notice the Doctor slip the metal disc in amongst the coals, piled up ready to be shovelled into the furnace.

It was a risky move, the Doctor admitted, but it was highly unlikely to sustain any damage at such a low temperature. This thing had clearly been designed to withstand far greater pressures. At any rate, seeing the object destroyed would be better than seeing it fall into the hands of the pursuing mercenaries.

The Doctor apologised profusely, and retreated out of the engine compartment, under the dark glares of the drivers.

As he raced back through the first class carriages, he very nearly ran straight into his pursuers.

"Oh, excuse me, gentlemen."

He examined the figures up and down. There were about six of them: stony, grey-skinned humanoids, clad in rusting steel armour, tainted with dents and scratches. Thick black cables snaked from the armour, piercing each mercenary's neck. The Doctor quickly deduced that these cables supplied the mercenaries with vital nutrients, and that the armour was not actually _armour_.

They were cyborgs – part organic, part machine. A conclusion fully supported by the evidence that one of the mercenaries had a bionic eye, bolted to its flesh.

The leader of the mercenaries raised a four-foot long metal pipe – actually a deadly energy weapon - to the Doctor's nose.

The Doctor straightened himself up, and raised his eyebrows innocently.

"You will be decimated," the leader growled, in a rasping tone. It was a noise that wouldn't have sounded out of place in a steelworks factory.

The Doctor frowned, peering at the cyborgs in a befuddled manner.

"You do realise that means you'll only destroy one-tenth of me?"

A couple of the cyborgs shared querying looks, attempting to process the Doctor's logic. The leader, however, kept its weapon squarely aimed at him.

"It is not relevant. The end result will be your termination."

"Ah…" muttered the Doctor, feigning an expression of disappointment. "That'll be a shame. I've always wanted to go and visit the Sky Mountains of the Altruistic Oasis. I'll never have the chance, now," he spoke forlornly.

"Enough of your verbalisation," the leader barked, "Where is it?"

The Doctor looked around him, pretending not to follow. He saw the faces of two dozen confused and intimidated passengers, frozen with fear.

"Where is what?" he asked.

"The Matrix," the cyborg thundered.

The Doctor checked his watch.

"I think you'll have to wait about, ooh… seventy years for that."

"Hand us the artefact!" grunted a second cyborg, raising its – slightly smaller – weapon.

"Or we will start eliminating them." The cyborg swung a gauntleted fist in a wide arc, indicating a group of passengers.

"Oh! _That_ artefact," the Doctor relented, slapping his forehead as though he'd suddenly remembered. "I don't have it."

"You stole the artefact from the Tranquil Archives precisely twelve seconds before we stormed the complex," the leader grunted.

"I'll take that as a compliment on my impeccable timing," the Doctor conceded. "But I still don't have it."

"Then you have entrusted it to one of the humans?" the mercenary speculated. "It would correspond with your characteristic practices."

"My, isn't your vocabulary impressive?" the Doctor mocked.

"We will interrogate every individual on this vessel," the leader ordered. "Destroy them if they do not comply."

"That _won't_ be necessary," the Doctor interrupted, leaping between the leader's weapon, and the trembling passenger it was aiming at. "None of them have the artefact."

"But it is aboard this vessel. We will find it without your assistance. Terminate the humans who stand in our way."

"No," interjected the Doctor, "I've hidden it. You will never find it. At least, not without my help."

The leader lowered its weapon, and stomped towards the Doctor – black, steel-capped boots hammering the carpeted floor. It swiftly raised its gauntlet, and grasped the Doctor's throat.

"You will divulge the location of the artefact, or these humans will be tortured," the leader rasped. "It is a known weakness of yours – which we will not hesitate to exploit."

The Doctor grimaced.

"You won't be able to find the artefact unless I'm still alive," he gasped, "And if you hurt any of these people, I won't help you."

He held the leader's steely gaze for a moment, until he was released.

The Doctor sucked in a lungful of the smoke-filled air, massaging his throat.

"You are indeed a conscientious opponent, Doctor," the leader growled.

The Doctor inclined his head.

"I don't think that meant what you think it meant."

"The language has not been assimilated correctly," the cyborg acknowledged. "Show us the artefact, and in return, we will show benevolence."

"Very well," the Doctor agreed. "But do not think that you can find a weakness in me. You have no idea what I am capable of."

"You will not attempt to mislead us, Doctor," the mercenary warned.

The Doctor whipped out the sonic screwdriver, wielding it like a beacon ahead of him.

"How did you get here?" he challenged. "Was it a… primitive teleport by any chance? One such as this?"

The cyborg leader's eyes widened, and it barked an order to the other mercenaries.

"Decimate the humans!"

The Doctor flicked on the sonic screwdriver, and it issued an exorbitantly loud buzz, that seemed to distort the very air around them.

The cyborgs shimmered, and vanished, switched off like an old computer screen, before they could fire a single shot.

The Doctor ground his teeth angrily.

"Reversed the polarity, and disabled their teleportation technology," he announced. "They won't be back."

A round of applause echoed all around him. The Doctor was astonished. Did they think this was all some kind of in-flight entertainment?

Nevertheless, the Doctor bowed curtly, presenting the bemused passengers with a wide grin, and offering his thanks.

He quickly saluted them, before making his way back through the train, to the buffet lounge. After all this exertion, he was craving a snack.

He ordered a fish finger butty from the mystified waiter, and took a seat, opposite a little girl with pigtails. She looked bored.

The Doctor opened up his sandwich, and began adding a selection of jelly babies to the dish.

He noticed the girl studying him in confusion, and offered her a jelly baby.

It seemed to diffuse the tension, and she spoke:

"Were you the man who was being chased by those mechanical men?"

"That's right," the Doctor replied enthusiastically, through a mouthful of his sandwich.

"Why were they chasing you?" she asked.

"Ah," the Doctor whispered mysteriously, "they were after a powerful magical item, of which I am the only known bearer."

The girl regarded him for a moment, and finally decided: "No."

The Doctor frowned in disapproval, affronted that the girl had seen through his story.

"Oh, okay then," he grumbled, "They wanted the instruction manual to the most powerful source of energy in the known universe. The only reason I have it is because I nicked it before anyone like them could get their grubby mitts on it."

The girl nodded, believing him this time, and started questioning him again.

"What happened to them?"

"I stopped them."

"Where did they go?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Don't know. Back to their home, I suppose."

"How did they work?" she asked, her interest escalating, "Are they steam powered?"

"I have no idea. I didn't think to ask. But between you and me," the Doctor muttered conspiratorially, "I think they were the Shi-rakh, a race of cyborgs from the Vosko Nebula."

"But they were mechanical," professed the girl, apparently unintimidated by the Doctor's fantastical conclusion. "They had valves, and pistons."

The Doctor frowned. She couldn't have been older than six, so her knowledge was rather impressive. "So they did. Well spotted."

"I want to be an engineer when I grow up, like my brothers," she said.

"Good for you," the Doctor articulated, munching on his surprisingly delicious sandwich.

"Papa said that a girl can't be an engineer. He said it was silly."

The Doctor shrugged. "Then he's an idiot."

"He says I should learn to do cooking and sewing," she moaned.

"What is this? The nineteen twenties?" the Doctor grumbled. "Oh yes, I suppose it is. But never mind him. What do _you_ want to do?"

"I want to be an engineer."

"Well, there you go then - be an engineer. Work hard. Don't let anyone tell you what to do."

The girl smiled at him.

The Doctor finished his lunch, and slid the plate to one side.

"I have to get back to the TARDIS. It was nice to meet you, uh…?" the Doctor smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Clara," the girl chirped.

The Doctor's hearts twinged, and his smile wavered for a moment. He inclined his head ever so slightly.

She frowned, noticing the pain in his ancient, shimmering eyes.

He quickly masked his discomfort with a smile.

"Enjoy your future, Clara. I have everyone else's to attend to."

The Doctor stood up, and headed back down the train, as it steamed through a small town, disturbing the residents, their windows rattling from the intense vibrations caused by the speeding locomotive.


	2. Love and Engineering

_85 years, and one day later_

Chris wiped the sweat from his brow. At least, that was what he meant to do. He ended up just adding more grease to his already grimy features. When he realised he'd smeared a thick wad of slime to his forehead, he simply shrugged. There was no point being an engineer if you didn't get stuck in.

He placed his fists on his hips, unwittingly spreading more grease to his overalls, and gazed up at the once mighty locomotive. He marvelled at the awesome feat of engineering. She was almost back in one piece, yet still stripped back to her bare essentials.

She was almost naked, Chris thought with a wry smile, without her iconic livery. The engine was dusted with a coat of matt black. She just needed a proper lick of paint, and a good polish – and she'd be as good as she was in the old days.

Chris stretched his back, the claw of old age gripping his spine. He had been retired now for six years – a phrase he wasn't yet tired of repeating to everyone who asked. Despite this, Chris had jumped at the opportunity to work on the old locomotive that was so close to his heart. He had worked on it when he was a young engineer, as had his father.

The others often wondered why he didn't take his retirement a little easier, and slow down a little.

'Never slow down,' he had said, 'otherwise you'll just stop.' It was a simple law of physics and, indeed, life.

He had always tried to keep himself at the peak of mental and physical fitness. However, there was very little he could do about a pot-belly, a rapidly retreating hairline and the occasional forgetfulness (as far as he knew). It seemed that although he hadn't lost his fighting spirit, his body had – and that was a far cry from his younger days. Still, Chris always endeavoured to remain optimistic.

"Cup o' tea?" Kelly asked.

Although younger than him (everyone here was), Kelly was technically his superior. She was a mother of two, so suffered a no-nonsense Northern attitude, and had no reservations about getting as involved in the restoration as the other engineers, which was something Chris admired. She always had her dark hair tied up in a bun, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

"Ooh, yes please, that would be lovely," Chris replied eagerly.

Kelly nodded at Liam. "Make us a brew, would you, Liam? There's a good lad."

Liam was a skinny young lad, with short, curly hair, in his late teens. His blue overalls seemed suspended from coat-hanger shoulders. Peeking out over his collar, though, was a flash of green and red. Chris had been amused this morning to discover that he was wearing a woollen Christmas jumper, complete with reindeer and a snowflake pattern.

Although Liam was a little shy, he was a good kid, and Chris couldn't work out why a lad his age was still working voluntarily just a couple of days before Christmas.

"Hmm…" Liam looked a little peeved. His bottom lip was tucked tightly beneath his front teeth, as it often was when Liam wanted to speak his mind, but held back, out of respect.

Chris took pity on him. Kelly always seemed to pick on him to carry out all the menial jobs, probably because he was the intern.

"No, I'll do it. May as well make myself useful," Chris puffed.

"No, no, it's okay," Liam quickly responded. Liam spoke with a slight lisp, which gave his voice a gentle lilting quality.

Chris pushed his spindly wireframe spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, and regarded Liam with some befuddlement as he set the old tin kettle up on the Bunsen burner, and began checking that the chipped mugs were relatively clean as he waited for it to boil.

"How're you doing?" Kelly asked him.

"Oh, I've just finished up with those coupling rods. They're all oiled – good as new."

Kelly smiled, in such a way to suggest that he hadn't given her the answer she was expecting.

"That's not what I meant," she confirmed his suspicion. "How are _you_ doing?"

"Oh, I see," he croaked, "No, I'm doing fine, thank you for asking."

"It's getting on ten o clock," she stated, tapping her battered silver wristwatch, "How long were you going to stay?"

"Oh, I might keep plodding on for another couple of hours. Then I'll go home," Chris muttered, with a grin. "You shouldn't worry about me."

Liam returned carefully with the cups of tea, somehow balancing all three in his hands, and managing not to spill any; a look of intense concentration on his face.

"Ah, cheers, lad," Chris asserted jovially.

Liam smiled to himself; Chris' accent reminding him momentarily of Wallace and Gromit.

Kelly turned to him, looking at him with a hawk-eyed gaze. "What about you, Liam? How come you're still here?"

"Yes, you should be at home enjoying yourself, whilst you're young," Chris heartily agreed.

Liam looked between the two of them for a moment, weighing up his response. Chris and Kelly were both lovely people – and they'd been quite close friends whilst they'd been working on the locomotive. But sometimes, he had that nagging feeling that the gap between their generations was too great – like a void which social attitudes and popular culture were sucked into. They just didn't understand each other.

"Being an engineer's what I've always wanted to do," Liam spoke, "I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else."

"What about Georgina?" Kelly asked. "Why don't the pair of you go out for a nice dinner somewhere?"

Liam looked down at his battered work boots for a moment.

"I don't think she'd want to," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Kelly asked.

Before Liam could reply, a door slammed, and the ominous ringing of heels striking the floor of the old warehouse echoed around them. It was a sound that they'd come to know and hate; each step was a gunshot, an uncompromising attack on each of them.

The three of them turned around to face the woman, their faces finally catching up with their fatigue.

Blonde hair, styled in a short bob. Crisp business suit. A hard, cruel mouth, which looked as if it had had never even attempted a smile. Miss Flint seemed to be constructed entirely of angular lines.

As she strode into the room, gripping her leather bound diary, she looked around, apparently disgusted by the grease and dirt all around her. Or perhaps that was her natural expression.

The noise ceased, and Miss Flint adjusted the collar on her blouse, before addressing them.

"What progress has been made today, Mrs Wilson?"

" _Some_ progress," Kelly replied curtly.

Miss Flint flipped open her diary, and scrutinised her notes.

"Yes?"

"We had to replace a spring. Took a couple hours."

"Another delay?" Miss Flint inquired. "We face setback after setback!"

"We have to do our jobs properly," spoke up Chris.

"I appreciate that, Mr Tibbett, but perhaps you may also appreciate that this train needs to appear at a public fundraiser in six months. And currently, we are _two months_ behind schedule."

"Without my engineers, you'd be a _year_ behind schedule," Kelly argued.

Chris looked up at her, his heart pumping, as it always did when there was such an electric tension in the air before a fight.

Miss Flint nodded. "Perhaps. I agree that your engineers are some of the best in the country. That _is_ why we hired you. Equally, I could add that you are not the only engineers in the country capable of completing this work."

Kelly was stunned, and gaped at Miss Flint. "Is that… is that a threat, _Miss Flint?_ "

Chris could see the fires burning in Kelly's eyes. She was not the kind of person to take a personal insult lightly.

He interjected, "Please, there's no need for this. The delays aren't our fault. The engine's a stubborn old girl, and she's dragging her heels every step of the way."

Miss Flint cast him a strange look, as if he were mad.

"You talk about that thing as if it's a person."

Chris shrugged, speaking with a passion. "The Scotsman's alive. She is!"

Miss Flint shook her head, unsympathetic towards Chris' beliefs. "It's a machine."

"It's not just a machine. It's more than that. It has a soul!" Chris protested. "The memories of every fireman, and engineer who's ever worked on it!"

Miss Flint was unmoved by Chris' enthusiasm. She shrugged, and returned to her notes.

"The work on the machine is still behind schedule."

Chris was almost enraged to be ignored once again by this pen-pushing businesswoman.

 _Almost._

Instead, he simply stood there, his fist clenched, his cheeks glowing. His quiet anger went completely unnoticed.

Liam, who had not uttered a sound during the exchange, edged forwards nervously.

"Miss Flint?"

"Yes?" she responded, looking down at him, effortlessly managing to intimidate the young lad.

"I was hoping that the extra hours I've been putting in the last few weeks…"

Miss Flint blinked at him. "What about it?"

Liam looked down at his shoes for a second, and returned his focus on Miss Flint's pencil-thin eyebrows.

"I was hoping that I'd be able to… get a bonus…?" Liam wavered.

Miss Flint stared at him for a full minute before speaking.

"You're asking for a pay rise?"

Liam nodded hopefully.

Miss Flint turned to a page in her diary. Liam glimpsed a list of the names of people that Miss Flint had hired for the job.

"No," she said coldly. It was almost a laugh.

Liam was crestfallen. He hadn't anticipated much – but he hadn't expected to be dismissed so contemptuously.

"Oh, please. It's Christmas Eve Eve."

Miss Flint raised an eyebrow.

" _That_ isn't a national holiday. Come in the day after tomorrow – then I'll be impressed."

"Oh, don't be a S-S-Scrooge." Liam stuttered, before he could stop himself. "I _need_ the money."

Liam was almost surprised to have spoken – horrified, even. Miss Flint could read it all over his face. Her icy featured stiffened.

"If you need the money, you'd better offer a little more courtesy to the people _giving you a job._ "

"I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean…" Liam stammered.

"Yes he did," Kelly snapped.

Liam stood rigid. As grateful as he was for Kelly's support, he was terrified that it would land him in more trouble.

"You don't offer us half the respect we deserve," Kelly roared, "The three of us are working overtime to get your job finished. And why are _you_ here?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't need to be here. We already know your schedule. I can't think of any reason for you to be standing here, other than you – _enjoy_ – bossing us about."

Liam backed quietly away. Miss Flint and Kelly were staring daggers at each other. Things were beginning to get ugly – he knew that there was nothing more dangerous than two women locked in a brawl.

"What's that light?" Chris pondered.

The others turned to look. When they saw him peering through the wheels of the locomotive, they dropped their aggressive stances, and joined him, to see what had piqued his interest.

Miss Flint, however, kept her distance from the oily train.

Chris leaned his weight on a connecting rod, and squinted into the darkness beneath the engine.

There was something unusual under there. It was emitting a strange, white glow.

Kelly pulled out a torch, and lit it up. The thing was some kind of device, like a cluster of mobile phones, soldered together with strips of wire.

Chris' heart sank as he realised what it might be.

"Oh my god…" murmured Liam. "Is that an IED?"

" _What?_ " Miss Flint expostulated.

Liam backed away, showing signs of panic.

"Is that a bomb?!"

"No," whispered Kelly. "It can't be. Why would…"

Kelly looked up into Chris' watery eyes.

"Why would anyone want to destroy the Flying Scotsman?" Chris finished for her.

The device began beeping rapidly; an alarm signalling the imminent explosion. They scrambled away from the locomotive, but it was too late.

A white light blasted them.


	3. The Doctor Investigates

_24_ _th_ _December 2014_

The Doctor wandered jauntily down a quiet, cobbled street, examining the shapes forming in his breath in the chill afternoon air.

"I thought it would be nice," the Doctor mentioned aloud, to the universe in general, "to have a nice, quiet Christmas this year. Catch up with a few old friends. Nothing special."

The Doctor glared at a lone, leafless tree, daring it to oppose him. The crooked branches swayed in the bitter wind, but did nothing to threaten him.

"No crashing spaceships. No killer Christmas trees. No evil snowmen," the Doctor continued.

The Doctor noticed a neatly folded newspaper, left conspicuously on a bench. This was exactly the sort of thing that could arouse his suspicions. He sighed, and picked it up, examining the front page.

"That won't work out. He's a shapeshifter. Still, it'll make for an interesting honeymoon, I suppose."

Not wishing to read any further, the Doctor placed the tabloid into a bin, to avoid further temptation, and carried on walking.

However, the Doctor knew that the universe never listened to him. _Something_ would happen. It was only really a matter of time.

"Maybe I'll find an old cinema in nineteen forty-six, and watch Frank Capra's _It's a Wonderful Life?_ " the Doctor uttered, "Or I could go somewhere more exotic. The Diamond Lakes of District Twenty are absolutely stunning in the snow…"

The Doctor paused, soaking in his current surroundings. "Although here's not too bad. For Manchester, anyway."

And there it was. Three minutes was all it had taken. A swarm of policemen, standing outside an old building, fighting off the cold. Two of them were stringing up 'police line – do not cross' tape across the doorway to the old building, like bizarre Christmas decorations.

The Doctor's hearts seemed to tug him in opposite directions. He really should carry on walking – especially if he wanted to enjoy this Christmas. But the policemen milling around outside the old warehouse had roused his interest.

 _What the hell_ , the Doctor figured. _What was Christmas without a little excitement?_

He strolled up to one of the frostbitten police officers, and showed her the psychic paper.

"Hello, I'm the Doctor. I'm from Scotland Yard, special branch."

The police officer looked down at his purple velvet jacket, a little confused, but stepped aside, despite her preconceptions.

"You can go through, sir."

"Thank you," the Doctor replied, ducking under the yellow tape, and striding into the echoing warehouse.

"I assume you're in charge," the Doctor addressed a harassed looking man, a beige trench coat pulled over his rounded shoulders.

"Yes," the man replied, looking up at the Doctor in irritation.

It was the trench coat which gave it away, of course.

The man did not appear to have slept well. He had a bristly layer of stubble springing from his jowls, and dark rings tunnelling under his eyes.

"And who are you?" he asked.

The Doctor repeated his introduction on automatic, while his eyes darted around the room.

There was nothing out of the ordinary here. A couple of police officers were standing around, snapping photographs of ordinary objects. A collection of tools strewn across the workbenches. And a large section of a railway track running across the floor.

"I'm Detective Inspector Madden," Mr Trench Coat grunted.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Doctor responded absent-mindedly, still casting a weathered gaze at the scene around him.

"What?"

The Doctor returned his attention to the detective, and grinned.

"Perhaps you'd like to fill me in on what's happened?" he prompted.

"Didn't the office inform you?"

The Doctor shrugged. "They left out a few details. All of them, in fact."

DI Madden scratched his balding head, muttering under his breath.

"Well, we got at least three missing persons," Madden growled, pulling three photocopied pictures from his pocket, and handing them to the Doctor.

The Doctor scanned the images. The faces were unfamiliar.

"Three engineers. One Chris Tibbett. One Kelly Wilson. And one Liam Isakov," the detective prodded each photograph in turn as he spoke.

"Not been seen or heard from since last night. Which puts their disappearance at some time between nine thirty and six o' clock this morning."

"That's quite a window," the Doctor muttered.

"Mrs Wilson's husband reported her missing at seven twenty this morning."

"Mrs Wilson's husband? _Mister_ Wilson?" guessed the Doctor.

Madden's eyes flickered up at the Doctor, a speculation of doubt suddenly growing in his mind.

"Yes…"

"And the others? When were they reported missing?" the Doctor asked.

"They weren't, as far as I know."

"Why not?"

"Both Mr Tibbett and Mr Isakov live alone. It's unlikely that anyone would have noticed this soon."

"Then how can you be sure they are missing?" the Doctor probed.

"None of them checked out yesterday. It's all in the logbook." Madden indicated a police officer, who was examining evidence artefacts in clear plastic bags, scattered across an impromptu table.

"Do you think they were abducted?"

"It's possible, yes."

"What were they working on here?" the Doctor quizzed. "Could it have been something important? Something that somebody wanted to get their hands on?"

"I wouldn't've thought so. The three of them were working on that Flying Scotsman rebuild."

"Ah yes…"

"Trouble is, we can't seem to contact the Project Manager. It's fairly safe to assume that she's missing as well."

"I'd like to suggest that she's overslept, but I have a feeling it's mid-afternoon. Speaking of which, isn't it a little early to officially report them as missing persons?" the Doctor reasoned.

"Well yeah," Madden responded with a hint of weariness, "but the train's missing as well."

The Doctor looked around the workshop in a lurch of sudden realisation.

"The Flying Scotsman's gone?" the Doctor exclaimed. "How can an entire train disappear without anyone noticing?"

"I'm struggling to work out how they could have moved the thing out, even," Madden grunted. "The doors are all locked. No sign of a forced exit."

The Doctor rushed over to the giant doors of the warehouse, to corroborate Madden's statement. They were fifteen foot high metal doors, covered in such a thick layer of rust, and fungus, and dirt, it seemed improbable that these doors had been touched in months.

"I should never have left it here," the Doctor mumbled to himself. "If the artefact falls into the wrong hands…"

The detective finally decided to trudge across the workshop to join the Doctor. At which point, the Doctor rushed past him, and began to inspect the rails in minute detail.

Madden sighed, staring at the crazy old man as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses, peering intently at the metal. Was this 'Doctor' really from Scotland Yard?

He glanced around at the other police officers, hoping that one of them would help him out. But even the forensics team were doing their best to ignore the man.

"What are you doing?" Madden asked, catching up with him.

"I don't know. Do _you_ think someone stole it?" the Doctor asked him.

Madden glared at his own reflection in the Doctor's glasses, and grunted.

"Some fanatics have probably dismantled the thing and melted it down, or dumped it in a river. Either way, the paperwork for this's gonna be hell," Madden grumbled.

"Ah, but look at this!" the Doctor exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees, and all but pushing his nose against the rail.

"What?" Madden snapped.

"Look at these marks. The Scotsman hasn't moved from this spot."

"That doesn't make sense. How can you even tell?" Madden griped.

"Well, obviously you can't detect it without… uh…"

The Doctor obscured his mouth with his fist before he finished. Madden could have sworn the Doctor had muttered _'sonic sunglasses'_.

"Are you insane?" Madden blurted.

"Yes," the Doctor replied, without looking up, "it _is_ possible that the Flying Scotsman is _still here_."

The Doctor paused, and examined the detective's astounded expression. He swiped the sunglasses from his nose, and his eyebrows twisted in mystification.

"Sorry, is that actually what you asked? I wasn't really listening."

"You're… not from Scotland Yard, are you?" Madden twigged.

The Doctor didn't move for almost a minute, and which left Madden feeling uncomfortable. His condemning grey eyes were shooting daggers at him.

"What are you talking about?" the Doctor expostulated, "I'm obviously from Scotland. But never mind that."

The Doctor scampered over to an object sitting conspicuously in the centre of the track, balanced on a sleeper. It had remained suspiciously untouched by the forensics team. Which was unusual, the Doctor concluded, as the object was clearly the most interesting piece of equipment in the room. It was possible that these humans had dismissed it as another workshop tool, but that seemed unlikely.

It was an electronic device, about the size of a shoebox, with instructions engraved on it in an alien language.

"What exactly do you think this is, Defective Inspector?"

"Don't go _near_ it!" Madden warned, "It's obviously the remains of an explosive device."

The Doctor glared at the detective, amused by the man's simplicity.

"Obviously. But you're wrong – it isn't."

"What do you mean?" Madden huffed. "I've already called in a disposal squad."

"You think it's an _explosive?_ " the Doctor groaned, pointing at it. "What do you think happened? Your bomb exploded, destroying the Flying Scotsman, leaving no trace of it, and a perfectly intact warehouse?" the Doctor gesticulated wildly, glaring at Madden in stupefaction.

Madden blinked, a little distressed. "Um, no…"

"Idiot."

Madden frowned. "What did you just call me?"

"Defective Inspector," the Doctor muttered dismissively, pointing a strange, humming torch at the device.

"You're clearly not who you say you are," Madden cautioned, "I could have you removed."

"Yeah, but you won't."

"And why not?"

"Because I know what this is."

Madden frowned, waiting for the Doctor to explain. But he didn't. He just kept staring at the device. Eventually, Madden buckled.

"Well, what is it?"

The Doctor put his torch back in his jacket pocket, looked Madden in the eye, and said, with sincerity:

"It's a primitively constructed time scoop, that's transported the Flying Scotsman elsewhere in time and space. Unfortunately, the power for the trip must have burned the device out. So there's no way of knowing exactly where – or when – it's gone."

Detective Inspector Madden narrowed his eyes.

"Officer Barnes, get this lunatic out of here."

"Oh, come on!" the Doctor moaned.

* * *

The Doctor was still furious about being forcefully ushered out of the workshop by a burly police officer as he made his way back to the TARDIS.

"That detective inspector whatsisname clearly has no idea what he's doing. UNIT would've at least listened to me. Now it looks like I'm going to have to initiate a rescue mission on my own."

The Doctor thrust his hands angrily into his pockets, trudging along like a sulking child, halting his spiel whilst he passed a cluster of Christmas shoppers.

"And those people, too. I must try to help them. I have a feeling that wherever the Scotsman's gone, they've gone with it. They could be anywhere!"

The Doctor was so grumpy that as soon as he laid eyes on his old blue box, he aimed an accusing finger at it.

"This is your fault! Why did you pick this place? Now? Here? If we'd landed… I don't know… a day earlier? We wouldn't have this problem. You're a time machine, for god's sake."

He threw his arms up in the air in vexation.

"No! We've landed here, so we can't go back across the timelines and stop it from happening. And I _can't_ let anyone else find that artefact."

The Doctor ceased his angry outburst, and took a moment to compose himself.

"Why does everything have to be so complicated?" he whined.

The Doctor stared sullenly at a couple of startled pigeons, fluttering a few feet away.

"Clearly, I'm going to need some assistance," he muttered, hanging in the TARDIS doorway for a few minutes as he selected a suitable candidate.

The Doctor knew a planets-worth of people – many of whom owed him favours. It was a matter of picking the right man for the job.

They were facing an ordeal which could involve any number of unknown factors. Inhospitable world? A broken locomotive? Angry locals? Distressed humans?

He needed an expert. And an expert he was on good terms with. That narrowed it down a little. A lot.

Actually, there was only one person who would even consider working with him on this one.

The Doctor smirked as their name sprang to mind, and he slammed the TARDIS door shut.


	4. Ghost from the Past

_23rd December, sometime in the 24th Century_

The TARDIS shimmered back into existence in a heavily industrialised complex. It was a huge manufacturing plant, stretching up further than the eye could see, crammed with pumping machines.

The Doctor couldn't tell if he had landed inside a skyscraper, or deep underground. As he leaned over a rusting railing, he could make out hundreds of identical levels towering both above and below. He was also ninety percent sure he was inside.

There was a huge, turbulent cloud of smoke ballooning from the higher reaches of the building. Far below him, a light drizzle spattered the metal walkways. The complex was so vast, it had developed its own ecosystem.

Huge holographic cylinders pierced each floor. Flashing pictures reminded workers who their employers were: a wealthy intergalactic corporate empire, which the Doctor was familiar with, and had no fond memories of.

The Doctor began to wander. Crisscrossing corridors stretched for miles in all directions. A forest of machines and cables, complete with chittering insects; actually swarms of high tech nanobots.

Ancient machines hissing with steam, alongside high-tech view screens hovering in mid-air. Dozens of rusted and battered droids soared through the air, chuntering loudly to each other.

The Doctor poked his nose into the folds of a couple of rudimentary canvas tents. It seemed incredible, but people lived here. They spent their whole lives here: living, sleeping, eating and working. It was a factory, yet at the same time, a city. Manufacturing plants were districts; workshops – streets.

It was impossible to tell how big this place really was. There were no maps, or plans of the complex. It would be too easy to get lost in this world. But all the workers seemed to know where they were going. They merely re-traced the steps they took each day.

The Doctor glanced around at the multitude of faces he passed. Each individual was dressed in an identical uniform: dark blue jumpsuits, highlighted with streaks of greasy yellow, and a dirty white nametag and barcode personally embroidered below the right collar.

They were not all humanoids, but species of all imaginable shapes and size. Everything from purple, four-armed giants lugging around huge crates, to tiny kangaroos with jars of replacement parts strapped to their backs, skittering amongst careless boots.

All the workers ignored him; paying more attention to their monotonous tasks, uninterested by a new face. Not even by a person wearing something different.

Despite this, it did not take the Doctor too long to find the person he was looking for. He found them working at an enormous metal-forming machine, the size of a jumbo jet.

"Hello, Perkins," the Doctor called, over the sound of pounding machinery.

Perkins' tired eyes creased in surprise when he realised who had addressed him.

"Doctor? I honestly thought I'd never see you again," Perkins croaked brightly, despite noticeable fatigue.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," the Doctor replied with a smile.

Perkins own grin quickly faded, when he remembered the concerned stares of half a dozen labourers, muttering dejectedly.

"Well, I'm not disappointed, but I am quite busy," Perkins retorted, hunching back over a mass of bolts, and attacking a particularly stiff fastening with a laser spanner.

"How are you doing?" the Doctor asked conversationally.

"Not too bad," Perkins replied a little frostily.

The Doctor nodded in approval.

He stood watching Perkins for a few moments, the throbbing machinery of the complex around him drumming out a reverberating heartbeat.

The Doctor coughed politely, and began asking:

"You wouldn't be interested in-?"

Perkins placed his laser spanner down on the floor, with more force than he had intended.

"Look, Doctor, I don't mean to be rude, but will you stop bothering me?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Perkins' scowl persuaded him otherwise. The Doctor crossed his arms, lips pursed, and looked around at the other workers milling around. They were at a loss for what to do. Hands in pockets, scratching heads, antennae buzzing.

The Doctor frowned. It seemed that production here had come to a complete standstill. The forming machine had clearly broken down. And Perkins was the only person trying to rectify that.

"All right, what if I help you fix this thing. Will you listen to me then?" offered the Doctor.

Perkins paused, and looked up at the Doctor, biting his lip in deliberation of the offer.

"Do you think you can?"

The Doctor crouched down beside him with a smug grin, and pulled out the sonic screwdriver, using a low-pitched soundwave to loosen the stubborn bolt.

They wrenched the panel free, and peered into the dark depths of the machine. The Doctor flicked on a powerful torch beam, and examined the interior: a jungle of cobwebbed cables, and mechanical gears.

"You'll have to climb in," Perkins informed him.

The Doctor turned to him in scepticism, and sighed as he accepted there was no other viable option.

"Make sure it's switched off. I don't want it to start up suddenly," the Doctor grumbled, eyeing the jaws of the industrial cogwheels.

"I wouldn't worry about that, Doctor," Perkins reassured him, "It's the spiders _I'd_ watch out for."

The Doctor grunted, hauling himself through the gap, and wriggling into the narrow space beneath the machine.

"I think it's a mechanical fault," Perkins called after him, "The computer didn't detect any problems with the processors."

"I'll take a look," the Doctor growled back.

Perkins peered into the darkness, illuminated only by the sonic screwdriver, and occasionally a shower of orange sparks, as the Doctor speedily repaired the machine.

Minutes later, the Time Lord crawled back out of the darkness.

"Try that. Sorry, it's only a botch job, but I am in a bit of a hurry."

"What was wrong with it?" Perkins asked, as the operator reactivated a control panel, and punched in a few commands.

"Some of the wires and drive belts were damaged. Perhaps decay, or acid burns. Maybe even mice. Who knows? Who cares! I've repaired it," the Doctor explained, as the machine hummed into life, and production resumed.

Satisfied, Perkins led the Doctor to a campfire, where they took a seat on a roughly-pressed metal bench. The Doctor marvelled at the ingenuity of this community. They had used scraps and rejected components to build places to live, and rest.

"I'll keep up my end of the bargain, Doctor. What is it you want?" Perkins asked, passing the Doctor a mug of coffee.

"I need your help," the Doctor admitted.

"With what?"

"I've lost something."

"What have you lost?"

"A train."

"A train!" exclaimed Perkins, raising an eyebrow, "How did you manage to lose one of those?"

"I don't know. How does one manage to lose entire years of one's life?" the Doctor pointed out.

"Well, you've got me there," Perkins agreed, taking a sip of his coffee.

"What kind of train is it?" Perkins asked, after a while.

"The most famous locomotive in human history," the Doctor announced grandiosely.

"Which one would that be, then?" Perkins asked, narrowing his eyes.

"The Flying Scotsman!" the Doctor proclaimed.

"Oh! Yeah, I have _heard_ of it," Perkins nodded. "Well, where were you when you last had it?"

"Nineteen thirty-nine. Not entirely sure where. It might have been somewhere near Doncaster…" the Doctor answered.

"It sounds like a good starting place," Perkins muttered.

"Ah, no," the Doctor waved a finger in objection. "You misunderstand. It's been transported across time and space!"

"I fail to see why that's a problem. Don't you have a time machine?"

"Yeah, but I've no idea where it's gone. And it's vital that I find it – there's something of great importance on that train," the Doctor explained, trying to tempt Perkins' curiosity.

"There always is with you, isn't there?" mused Perkins.

"Have you heard of the Cold Fusion Matrix?"

"I can't say I have. It's not a cocktail, is it?"

"No," dismissed the Doctor with an amused smirk, "it's the most powerful energy source ever created by the lesser species."

"Cold fusion, huh? I thought that was impossible," confessed Perkins.

"Suns burn hot. Why shouldn't they burn cold as well?"

"Well, it's a little bit of an oxymoron, isn't it? I hate to burst your bubble, Doctor, but no-one's ever made a cold fusion reactor. And no-one's seen or heard of a cold star."

"I have. And guess what? The Matrix _contains_ the secret to cold fusion," the Doctor continued excitedly.

"And what is the secret to cold fusion?" Perkins queried.

"How should I know?! Do you think I'm stupid enough to open the most dangerous source of power in the universe?"

Perkins stared at him, raising his eyebrows judgmentally, until the Doctor added:

"Don't answer that."

Perkins let him off with a wry smile.

"What?" grumbled the Doctor, trying to decipher Perkins' puzzled expression.

"I really don't understand why you can't go back in time, and pick up your Cold Fusion Matrix before this train disappears."

"Because," sighed the Doctor, "the time lines are fixed. The causal nexus has been twisted into a path I now have to follow. I can't go back and alter a sequence of events I've now become a part of. You see?"

The Doctor stared hopefully at Perkins for a moment.

"No, I think you lost me a bit towards the end there," muttered Perkins.

"Okay, I meant to go back and pick it up earlier, but I kept getting distracted," the Doctor admitted, "and now the Scotsman – and four human bystanders – have been teleported to another point in space-time. They might be anywhere, and I could really use your help."

The Doctor peered at his old friend, who was staring pensively at the floor.

"Oh, come on, Perkins! I know this is right up your street!"

"I am intrigued, Doctor," confessed Perkins. "But why me?"

"Because you're the best man for the job. And my favourite," the Doctor explained. "Well, least un-favourite."

Perkins looked at the Doctor, depreciatively.

"Sorry, that sounded polite in my head," acknowledged the Doctor.

" _Really?_ " Perkins muttered, acidly.

"Look at this place," the Doctor hissed, "You don't belong here. This kind of work's way below your paygrade."

"Well, since my last career _blew up_ , I've been stuck in this dead end job for months. It's the only work I can get," Perkins admitted. "Besides, I'm needed here. No one else knows how to fix any of this stuff. And there's a very nice Creolan working in the Assembly sector. She's very pretty. At least, I _think_ she's a she."

Perkins' eyes crinkled as he stared off into the distance.

"You're telling me you _enjoy_ working here?" scoffed the Doctor.

Perkins sighed. "No, of course not. It's a life built on hope. Hope that you'll get promoted to the upper levels, and hopefully, one day you'll reach the top."

Perkins glanced around him, and muttered conspiratorially. "But there's no way of telling how far we are from the top. Or the bottom. I have a suspicion that it's an endless cycle."

"What if I get you a proper job?" the Doctor enticed him.

Perkins' eyes lit up.

"What are you offering?"

"How about a position on the Seven Star Express?"

"The Seven Star Express?" exclaimed Perkins. "The one that runs between Sto and Alpha Centurai?"

"The very same," the Doctor beamed.

"But that's a luxury star-steamer."

The Doctor could tell that Perkins was hopeful, but he hadn't been persuaded just yet…

"Chief engineer?" the Doctor propositioned, "With your own private laboratory?"

Perkins frowned in disbelief.

"How could you possibly manage all that?"

"I know someone who owes me a debt."

"All right, Doctor. If I agree to help, can you promise that no-one will try to kill us?"

The Doctor diverted his gaze momentarily. "No, not really. In fact, I can very much guarantee the opposite."

Perkins looked around him. At the world he was currently living in; his pointless, humdrum world of hopelessness and desperation.

"Well, it's gotta be better than this place."

The Doctor beamed. "Brilliant. Then let's get going. I'll explain everything in the TARDIS."

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 **I hope I'm not the only one who would like to see Perkins return in Doctor Who – he was great alongside the Twelfth Doctor in _Mummy on the Orient Express_.**


	5. A Stitch in Time

_23_ _rd_ _December 2014_

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Flint gasped, staring into the furious eyes of Kelly Wilson.

Kelly roared: "You don't need to be here. We already know your schedule. I can't think of any reason for you to be standing here, other than you – _enjoy_ – bossing us about."

Liam backed quietly away. He glanced over at Chris, who seemed lost in his thoughts. Perhaps he wise not to get involved.

"What's that noise?" Chris pondered aloud.

The others turned to look at him, and listened.

The sound was unlike anything any of them had heard before. It was an ominous grinding noise, which set their pulses racing.

It was a noise which seemed to fill Liam with the hope that perhaps he could convince Miss Flint to give him a pay rise after all.

The sound ceased, and was promptly followed by two oddly dressed men dashing into the warehouse.

"Nobody move!" the older of the two yelled, whom Liam would soon discover was called 'the Doctor'.

"You're all in incredible danger," the Doctor continued, coming to a halt, and scrutinising them all. "I would advise running, but I already know you're not going to."

"Who are you?" demanded Miss Flint. "What are you doing here?"

The Doctor hissed at her to shut up, and jumped into the Scotsman's cab.

Miss Flint made a move to follow, but Perkins blocked her path.

"He can't go up there! What's he doing?" Miss Flint shrilled.

"I think it would be best if you stayed back, miss," Perkins replied calmly.

Liam and Kelly exchanged startled glances. _What was going on?_

The Doctor emerged a few moments later, and jumped down from the cab, hurriedly brushing the soot out of his hair.

"I found it," he muttered to Perkins, "but it's been there so long, it's fused to the firebox. There's no way I can remove it quickly."

"Well, what now?"

"Plan A," the Doctor declared.

"Hold on, what was that, then?" Perkins exclaimed, gesturing towards the Scotsman's engine cab.

"That was plan B. I really didn't have high hopes for plan B – that's why it's lower down the list."

Perkins pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief. "That's not how it works!"

The Doctor ducked under the great wheels of the Scotsman, and Perkins tagged close behind him.

"Can you disable it?" Perkins asked. "Are you sure that will that work? I thought you said we couldn't change anything."

"We can't break the rules," the Doctor said quietly, "but maybe we can bend them."

Chris and the others cautiously shuffled over to them, and peered through the spokes. There was something unusual sitting beneath the locomotive, lit up by the Doctor's strange tool.

"Oh my god…" murmured Liam, hovering over his shoulder. "Is that an IED?"

" _What?_ " Miss Flint expostulated.

Liam backed away, taking sharp, deep breaths.

"No," the Doctor assured them, apathetically, "it's not a bomb."

The Doctor adjusted some settings on the screwdriver, and issued a scandalised roar.

"And no, I can't disable it. I can't even reprogram the co-ordinates. I was hoping to redirect the time scoop, but it's not controlled from this end."

"Ah," responded Perkins quietly, "So there's nothing we can do."

"We're along for the ride," the Doctor concurred.

"How long until it goes off?"

"Not long," the Doctor whispered.

"Do you want me to time that?" Perkins queried sarcastically.

"What are you talking about?" Chris interjected. "What's going on?"

The Doctor glanced at Perkins, offering him a look requesting _him_ to deal with the humans.

Perkins looked up at Chris, and spoke in a reassuring manner.

"I understand this may be a little distressing, sir, but-"

"I demand to know who you are!" Miss Flint insisted, pushing herself forward, with one of her hands placed firmly on her hip in an attempt to signal her authority.

"I…" Perkins mumbled, but he didn't get a chance to speak.

"There's no need for that _attitude_ , Miss Flint," Kelly snapped at an affronted Miss Flint, before turning to the Doctor and Perkins. "But yes, the pair of you shouldn't really be in here. What _are_ you doing?"

"Well, I, er…" began Perkins. He turned back to the Doctor, who looked to be furiously prodding the device with the sonic screwdriver. "Do you always get this, Doctor?" he asked.

"You'd be surprised," the Doctor muttered.

Perkins nodded, before shaking his head. "No, I really wouldn't."

"What _is_ going on?" pressed Kelly.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, and stood up, to address the group.

"Prepare yourselves for a bit of a shock, because in less than thirty seconds…"

The Doctor was cut short by a rapidly beeping alarm.

A white light engulfed the six of them, and they were sucked into the device, the Flying Scotsman along with them. Compressed, it seemed, into a few inches of space, accompanied by a great _whooshing_ noise.

The warehouse fell silent.


	6. Under a Steel Sky

_24_ _th_ _December 3017_

Perkins slowly came round. It had been a long time since he'd slept in a comfortable bed, he mused, struggling to summon the effort to open his eyes.

It took him a moment to realise that the bed was not as warm and cosy as he'd first thought. The blankets were cold, slightly damp… and as he grasped them, crumbled to a powder.

He sat up sharply, which was nauseating; his hearing fooling him into believing he had two frostbitten hands clamped over his ears.

He frowned, taking in the environment around him. Perkins found himself submerged in a colossal snowdrift. The ground seemed to shimmer with freshly fallen snow. A desert of ice, mirrored by a dark sky and the twinkling of a billion, billion constellations.

Aside from the six of them, scattered down the face of the dune, there wasn't another living creature in sight.

At the foot of the snow-dune, was a scene which simultaneously filled him with wonder, and dismay: the battered wreck of the Flying Scotsman, concealed beneath a thin veil of snow.

"You were saying, Doctor?" he spluttered, stumbling to his feet – barely keeping his footing on the unstable snow.

Perkins' voice was removed from the air almost as soon as he had spoken; consumed by the snow.

The others were beginning to pick themselves out of the ground, looking around, thoroughly confused.

The Doctor was already on his feet, apparently measuring the wind direction with his finger. Perkins wasn't sure what he could learn from that – the air was still.

They converged on the Doctor, and it was clear that the others were panic-stricken.

"What on earth have you done?" yelled Miss Flint.

Their voices were lost, as they began to express their confusion.

"W-w-where are we?"

"What is this place?"

"How are we gonna get back?"

"Who _are_ you?"

The Doctor did not appear to be listening to them, although he detected general discontent, and proceeded to explain:

"I'm afraid that this train, and you along with it, has been transported to an alien world, a thousand years into the future."

The four unwilling travellers merely gaped at him.

"They never run on time…" muttered Perkins dryly.

" _What?_ " Kelly uttered.

"We've time travelled?" exclaimed Liam, his eyes wide.

"I wonder where we are?" the Doctor articulated excitedly, a boyish gleam on his face, rubbing his hands together and bounding up the side of the snowdrift to a higher vantage point.

Perkins took it upon himself to try and calm the others. He knew the Doctor didn't care about them enough to bother. He was more interested in trying to work out where they had ended up.

"I expect this is all a bit new to you," Perkins addressed them.

"Where have you taken us?" interrupted Miss Flint.

"I'm sorry, miss. _We_ haven't taken you anywhere. I'm in the dark almost as much as you. All I know is that we're on a different planet."

They merely gaped at him, as they had done when the Doctor had described the same event.

"I don't understand," Kelly spoke for them all.

"Well," began Perkins, attempting to come up with a way to explain their situation as gently as possible. "Look up at the sky. Those aren't your stars. That's not your sky."

The four of them did as suggested, and gazed up at the brilliant night sky in amazement. Speckles of red, and purple, were clearly visible, amongst giant wisps of nebulae.

Perkins watched Chris, the older gentleman, wrinkle his nose as he adjusted his spectacles.

"You're right," he muttered.

"We're not on Earth…" Liam breathed.

"Exactly," Perkins assured him, kindly.

These four remarkable people were slowly coming to terms with where they had ended up. Even the disagreeable Miss Flint seemed to have accepted that they were not on their home world.

"Where did that other chap go?" Kelly asked.

Perkins twisted round, scanning the peak of the snowdrift.

"I think he went for a look around."

The Doctor stood at the highest point he could reach, surveying the horizon, hawk-like.

There were intense snowstorms closing in all around. They were a couple of days away at the most.

And on the other side of the snow dune, the Doctor could see a graveyard of vehicles: spaceships, planes, land-speeders. It was a vast junkyard, spread out across the valley, filled with blackened, twisted metal. It was abandoned. There were no signs of civilisation, or even semi-intelligent life.

Satisfied he had seen all he could from there, he raced back down the snowdrift, where Perkins and the others were shuffling restlessly in the cold.

"But how did we get here?" Kelly had asked.

Perkins was stumped for an answer, so the Doctor leapt in with an explanation.

"A time scoop. When we came through, it probably felt as if you were being squeezed, like a tube of toothpaste?"

Kelly looked at her colleagues in bewilderment.

"I s'pose."

"As if you were being squeezed through a tiny gap?" the Doctor continued, hopefully. "That's pretty much what happened. That machine we saw under the Scotsman reduced us all to a point less than a picometre across. To a point so infinitesimally small, it's possible to force _two_ points in space-time to occupy the _same_ point. And thus, we cross over to the other point, ending up here. With me so far?"

The Doctor registered blank looks.

"No? Never mind. We were zapped two hundred light years across the universe by a thing-a-majig."

"How could you know all this?" Chris asked.

"I'm the Doctor. I'm a time traveller from the future – and I'm a bit of a know-it-all," the Doctor grinned.

"Oh, and this is Perkins. He's from the future, too. I recruited him to help me find a train."

The four humans continued to gape at them, and Perkins considered the possibility that they were a little overwhelmed by the ordeal.

"Wait, the Scotsman?" Kelly asked.

"The very same."

"You mean _you_ _knew_ this was going to happen?" she confronted him.

"…yes," the Doctor replied carefully.

"Then why didn't you stop it?" she demanded.

The Doctor stared at her, pointing at the spot he was standing in, raising a cynical eyebrow.

"What do you think this is?"

Kelly frowned, but didn't raise any further objections.

The Doctor peered at them all, trying to decipher their judgements.

"Doctor?" asked Perkins. "What was your plan once we'd found the Scotsman?"

"To bring it back, of course," the Doctor replied, as if it were that obvious – and that simple.

Perkins chuckled. "I don't mean to be a pessimist, but I don't think it's going anywhere."

He gestured towards the half-submersed engine.

"It'll have to. It's the only way we'll get back," the Doctor explained, "I took a few scans of the time scoop before it activated. We're tethered to this location, but we're still linked to Earth. If we can move the Scotsman out of the range of the time scoop, we should all snap straight back there. But we only have three or four days to do that before the link decays, and we're trapped here."

Perkins looked down at the locomotive. If they rigged up a rudimentary pulley system, they might be able to drag the Scotsman a few feet – and that might take a day or so.

"And how far do we need to go?" Perkins asked.

"Uh…" the Doctor muttered some calculations, counting on his fingers. "About a hundred and seventy five miles."

"A hundred and seventy five miles!" exclaimed Perkins. "I don't think we could _walk_ that in this weather!"

"Very probably. The five of you would freeze to death after two days," the Doctor agreed.

"Are we going to die?" spluttered Liam. "Are we going to die here?"

"No," Perkins intervened. "We'll find another way to get back."

He turned back to the Doctor. "What about the Cold Fusion Matrix – the thing we came for? Couldn't we extract that, ditch the locomotive and find another bit of kit to get us out of here?"

"No," muttered the Doctor. "I hid it in the furnace eighty-five years ago – it's completely fused to the Scotsman. For all intents and purposes, the Flying Scotsman _is_ the Cold Fusion Matrix. We have to take the entire locomotive back with us."

"Oh," muttered Perkins, out of ideas.

The Doctor examined the deeply worried faces of the unfortunate humans who had gotten caught up in his misadventures.

"It's quite simple," the Doctor urged, trying to inspire some confidence, "We've just got to get the Scotsman working again! Convert it so that it runs on the snow, or something. I'll work something out."

"And how are we going to get the Scotsman working again?" Kelly disputed. "We haven't got any replacement parts. Or tools!"

"I've got a laser spanner," Perkins muttered helpfully, waving the futuristic device. He clipped it back onto his belt when he saw that no-one was particularly impressed.

"There's loads of spare parts on the other side of that hill," the Doctor informed her.

"There's what?" Kelly queried.

"Yeah, there's this massive junkyard filled with crashed spaceships."

"Crashed spaceships?" exclaimed Liam. "Are there other people here? Aliens!?"

"No, there are no aliens here," the Doctor dismissed, "Apart from us. But we can have a look; see if we can find anything to patch up the Scotsman."

The Doctor began to wander down the snow dune. He quickly realised that no-one was following him.

"Come on, chop-chop! Do you want to make it back in time for Christmas, or not?"

He stopped, and was dismayed at the sight of them all.

Chris, exhausted, taking a seat on the ground. Kelly, rubbing her arms to fight off the cold. Liam, kicking dejectedly at the snow. Miss Flint, her high heels sinking into the white terrain. Even Perkins, scratching his head, his body language expressing his doubt.

The Doctor trudged back up the face of the snowdrift. He couldn't believe them.

"We've only got until tomorrow. We need to get a move on."

"Tomorrow?" Perkins asked. "I thought you said we had a couple of days?"

"There's a huge snowstorm on its way," the Doctor growled, "We can't be here when it hits."

Chris spoke up. It was against his better nature to get angry, but the Doctor clearly didn't understand.

"We've been working on this thing for ten years, and you think we can just put it back together overnight?"

Chris shrugged, ashamed to be speaking out as he was. "Of course I want to see the Scotsman working again. And I want to get back home – we all do. But what you're asking of us is impossible!"

The Doctor seemed taken aback. Disappointed, even.

"Impossible?" the Doctor mouthed. " _Impossible?_ "

He peered at Chris in disbelief. His nose was purpling – frozen.

They all seemed without hope.

"Chris," the Doctor spoke, "You've been an engineer all your life. You've followed in your father's footsteps. Even working your dream job!"

The Doctor span around, jabbing Liam in the chest as he gathered momentum.

"Liam. You've wanted to be an engineer ever since you got that Meccano set for Christmas when you were seven. Kelly. 'Engineering's a man's game', your mother said. You wanted-"

"I wanted to prove her wrong," Kelly finished.

"If anyone can fix the Flying Scotsman, you lot can. We can get this done in a few hours!"

The engineers were gawping at the Doctor once more, wondering how he could know so much about them.

"What about me?" Miss Flint asked, uncertainly. "I'm not an engineer. I haven't used a hammer or a screwdriver, since I was at school!"

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, don't worry, Miss Flint, we'll find something for you to do. So, who's helping me?"

"Well, I suppose we ought to take a look," Perkins offered.

Chris and Kelly nodded in agreement, and they began to descend the hill, towards the Scotsman.

* * *

It took them an hour to shovel some of the snow from the locomotive, and review the damage it had received. Not even Miss Flint was spared from the work.

"Well, Doctor," Chris puffed, scratching notes into a pocket notebook, "One of the cylinders is damaged, and there's the brake-pipe hose missing. On the plus side, there are a few pieces of equipment we left in the cab that might come in useful."

"Even if we repair the damage, I still don't understand how we're going to get it moving," Kelly maintained. "There aren't any tracks, and the Scotsman's buried in three foot o' snow!"

"We'll have to be a little more imaginative, then," the Doctor answered with a cryptic smile.

"What do you mean?" asked Kelly, placing her fists firmly on her hips.

"Oh, I see," realised Perkins, "You're hoping to find some abandoned alien tech in that junk yard we can use."

"Well done, Perkins, very quick," the Doctor congratulated him.

"I'm glad you remembered, Doctor," Perkins muttered cynically.

"Let's go and see what we can dig up?" the Doctor muttered excitedly.

"You two," the Doctor gesticulated in the direction of Kelly and Chris, "had better stay here. I can't risk leaving the Scotsman unguarded."

"I thought you said there was no one else here?" Perkins reminded him.

The Doctor frowned, "I don't think that's what I said. How do you think we got here?"

"Ah, yes," recalled Perkins. "You did mention that."

"Sorry, are you saying we're not alone here?" Liam interjected.

The Doctor nodded. "And I'd give them twenty-four hours before they find us."

"Who's 'they'?"

"A band of cyborg mercenaries," the Doctor replied simply.

"Are they going to kill us?" Liam questioned, his voice wavering.

"I imagine they'll give it their best shot," the Doctor answered. "Look, there's nothing to worry about if we get out of here AS-AP."

The engineers shared horrified glances.

"Then what are we waiting for?" snapped Miss Flint, teetering up the snowdrift in her heels, flailing with her diary in an attempt to steady herself.

The Doctor and Perkins looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"Does she have any idea what we're looking for?" the Doctor queried.

"Not likely," scoffed Kelly.

"All right. It'll be best if we split up," the Doctor suggested, "Perkins, Liam, you take the west side, I'll go east with Miss Flint."

Chris watched them race up the snowdrift, and disappear out of sight.

"I suppose we'd better make a start on the repairs," he muttered.

"Yes," agreed Kelly. "Cup o' tea first?"

Chris eyed her studiously.

"A cup of tea?" he inquired dubiously. "How'll you manage that?"

"I've always got tea!" she objected. "There's some stashed in the cab."

"Then yes, tea would be lovely," Chris chortled.

Kelly patted him warmly on the arm, and ventured into the locomotive.

Chris took another look at the alien sky, mulling over his predicament with an amused gleam. His wife, Maureen, would love to hear about this.

He shook his head, almost surprised by how well he was coping with being transported to another world. But then, how was it any different to going abroad? Or even down to the corner shops, these days?

He grasped a wrench, and set to work.


	7. Scrapheap Challenge

It's those eerie creaking sounds in the dead of night which are the most chilling. Especially if you think you are alone. Because there is always that element of doubt in the back of your mind – that you might not be. That there's something lurking in the shadows. Something right behind you, just out of sight.

And if, like Miss Flint, you happen to be stranded on a dark alien world, surrounded by the ruins of a hundred alien ships, those doubts seem a little more feasible.

"Doctor," hissed Miss Flint, tugging his jacket, "I think I saw something move."

The Doctor peered around in the husk of an ancient Vinvocci salvage vessel.

The metal hull groaned. He swung his torch around, throwing a dim light on the empty corridor. The only movement came from an agitated Miss Flint.

"There's nothing there, Miss Flint. I've already told you: we're alone."

Miss Flint looked up at the Doctor anxiously.

"Then why did you check?"

The Doctor smiled, "Good question."

They continued through the ship, examining the bare wall panels. Miss Flint pointed at a series of deep scratches in the cladding.

"What made these?" she whimpered, checking over her shoulder, perhaps expecting to find the perpetrator standing right behind her.

The Doctor carefully pressed his fingers around the gashes. Something very powerful had made these incisions – powerful enough to slash through the hull of a spaceship, a craft designed to withstand the dangers of deep space: meteors, debris, and photonic missiles.

"I wouldn't worry about those," the Doctor lied, "The species that used this ship had very sharp claws. It'll just be from one of the crew."

Miss Flint breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

"And what happened to the crew?"

"No idea," admitted the Doctor. "They died centuries ago, judging by the state of this place."

"Do you think they were zapped here, like us?" Miss Flint wondered.

"Quite possibly," the Doctor entertained her.

"They never made it back…" Miss Flint muttered, her eyes locked on the scratches.

The Doctor stopped his trek through the shipwreck, and focused on Miss Flint.

"Don't think about that. Concentrate on finding something useful we can take back."

Certain that Miss Flint was keeping her wits about her, the Doctor heaved open a sliding door. The hydraulics wheezed in protest as the Doctor pushed his entire weight against it.

Miss Flint scuttled through, into a sizable cockpit.

Two seats, padding oozing out through frayed fabric, sat side by side in front of a screen that stretched across the front of the cockpit, offering a broad view of the desolate landscape.

"Something useful," the Doctor reminded her, poking through a container overflowing with junk.

"Like this?" Miss Flint questioned, picking up a loose control panel from the co-pilot's seat.

She twisted it round, trying to work out what it was, and how to switch it on. "Is this anything we can use?"

The Doctor cast a condescending glance over at Miss Flint, and the device she had randomly picked up.

"No, that's a games console."

He offered a sympathetic grin.

"Well, I don't know," Miss Flint resigned, sinking into the pilot's chair. "It's all… alien to me."

The Doctor yanked at some pipes spilling from the ceiling panels, and they tumbled to the floor in a spaghetti-like mass.

He watched Miss Flint stare forlornly out of the window, as he coiled the pipes around his arm.

"Tell me," the Doctor spoke, gaining Miss Flint's attention, "Is it just 'Miss Flint', or do you have a first name?"

"Of course I have a first name," she snapped.

The Doctor scooped up the last of the cables, and leaned nonchalantly over the back of the pilot's seat. He stared at her expectantly. She didn't continue.

"Any plans when you get back home?" he asked.

Miss Flint shrugged. "Meetings."

"Apart from business appointments."

Miss Flint shook her head. "Is this important?"

The Doctor glared at her in surprise.

"I'm only making conversation," he protested.

"Have we done here?" Miss Flint muttered disdainfully, leaping out of her seat, and striding back out through the door.

"I think so," the Doctor sighed.

* * *

"So, are you from the future?" asked Liam, crossing his arms.

Perkins crawled out from beneath a supercomputer in the depths of another abandoned alien spacecraft.

"No," Perkins retorted, "You're from the past."

"I see…" Liam responded, still a little muddled.

Perkins puffed his cheeks out as he heaved himself to his feet.

"Damaged beyond repair," he stated. "Useless."

Liam rubbed his knuckles in agitation.

"What's it like? In the future?"

Perkins fixed Liam with an exhausted stare.

The young lad's eyes were wide with curiosity. Perkins gathered that he was painting a vivid picture of the future in his mind. A shining metropolis, perhaps. Flying cars soaring amongst glistening spires. A perfect, peaceful bubble of reality where everyone was equal - a utopian paradise.

No, Perkins thought dryly. 'The future' was nothing like that.

"It's bit of a mess, to be honest," Perkins admitted, scratched his head. "So, much the same, I imagine."

Liam nodded, his lips pursing as he plunged into deep thought.

"Are there still engineers?" he asked, after a while.

Perkins paused, and turned back to him, throwing a cracked touchscreen back onto a pile of damaged components.

"Well, yeah. Things need to be built, and fixed when they break down. I don't think that'll ever change," Perkins mused, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

He began to pace around the lifeless engine room, occasionally kicking a loose canister out of his path, as he glanced over broken bits of tech.

"We've not been replaced by robots?"

Perkins snorted. "Well, robots are all well and good. But they're not great at thinking outside the box."

"A bit like Star Wars?" Liam guessed.

Perkins frowned. "What's Star Wars?"

Liam's excited grin dropped. "It's… you- you've never seen Star Wars?"

Perkins shrugged and shuffled over to another stack of computers, and bent over, to look underneath.

"Oh!"

"What?" Liam asked, dashing over.

"I think these are the controls for the propulsion unit. If we could move this over to the Scotsman, we might be in with a chance…"

Perkins threw Liam a thoughtful glance.

Liam looked over the bulk of the heap of wires and display units. It was about three metres tall, and twice as wide.

"How are we gonna shift all that?"

Perkins rapped on an array of buttons bordering a blank screen, the size of a keyboard.

"We only need that bit. And the propulsion unit itself, of course."

Liam examined the fastenings. The control panel seemed immovably screwed to the rest of the ship.

Perkins noticed Liam's expression of concern, and grinned.

"I'm gonna give you a tip. Future engineering, to you." He retrieved the spanner from his belt, and locked it over a bolt.

"If I use the laser spanner to heat the area around the bolt, rather than the bolt itself, it'll make the whole operation a little more… malleable. The bolt comes out much easier."

Perkins demonstrated, and with a grunt, shifted the bolt free. It pinged on the floor grating and rolled out of sight.

"There," he muttered proudly, releasing a second bolt. "It's known as the Isakov principle."

Liam's heart leapt. _Isakov?_

"It's _what?_ "

Perkins wrenched the panel free, and thrust it at Liam.

"That's enough of that. I imagine if we find…" Perkins trailed off when he heard a piercing scream, which seemed to last ten seconds or more, pausing only for the screamer to catch their breath.

"W-w-what was that?" whimpered Liam.

"It sounded like a scream," Perkins commented.

"Miss Flint?" Liam realised. "Oh-my-god, what if she's-"

Perkins waved his hands to try and hush Liam.

"I think we'd better investigate," he murmured, hurrying for the exit.


	8. We're Not Alone

The Doctor stood rigidly, an expression of horror plastering his features, as he allowed his sensitive Gallifreyan hearing to recover from Miss Flint's deafening screech.

Miss Flint had taken refuge against the far wall, as far away from the awful sight as possible.

The Doctor shone the torchlight upon the two mangled skeletons once more. They were yellowed – ancient. The bones were snapped, and spread-eagled across the floor of the corridor. It seemed that they were desperate to flee from some nightmare in their final moments.

Debatably not as desperate to escape as Miss Flint had been when she stumbled across them.

Crouching down, the Doctor examined the humanoid skeletons more closely.

"It's just the remains of the crew. They've been dead for over four hundred years," the Doctor concluded.

Miss Flint ventured unsteadily forward, once she was certain that it was safe to move. She collapsed to her knees as she bent down to join the Doctor.

"I have to say, Miss Flint, you've got rather an impressive voice," the Doctor muttered, massaging his earlobe.

Miss Flint was more occupied in trying to control her breathing to respond to the Doctor.

She hesitantly examined the bodies a little more closely. She noticed the unusual skull shape, one of which was splintered, and the fingers, which were a few inches longer than her own, but otherwise normal.

It took Miss Flint a few moments to work out what was wrong with that.

"Wait… you said they were the crew?"

"Yes," the Doctor confirmed.

"And you said," Miss Flint took a deep breath, "that the crew had claws."

These skeletons most certainly did not.

 _Ah…_ the Doctor cursed internally.

"Did I?" muttered the Doctor, attempting to impress on her the air of an absent-minded professor.

"That means…" Miss Flint hopped to her feet, "Whatever killed them is still out there!" she shrieked.

The Doctor nodded seriously. "And very probably has _exceptionally_ sharp claws."

"We've got to get out of here!" Miss Flint squawked.

Shaking his head, the Doctor laughed quietly. "Think about it, Miss Flint. This happened hundreds of years ago. Whatever attacked them can't have lived that long."

Miss Flint gripped her diary close to her chest, which appeared to help her calm down.

Perhaps it was the only piece of reality she had. The only thing which didn't seem crazy in this alien world.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right. That makes sense," she nodded as she spoke, willing herself to believe her words.

A throaty, rumbling roar echoed down the corridor. It was a boom of thunder, differing from the real thing only by how close it seemed – _very_ close.

Miss Flint screamed again. Seconds later, a creature, the size of a panther, and almost as lithe, pounded through the doorway. It was eyeless; a writhing mass of muscle, with a shimmering black hide.

It lashed out with steel claws, snagging Miss Flint's short blonde hair, narrowly missing her face.

The talons sliced through the wall, as easily as if it had been paper.

It reared its snarling, spherical head, mechanically gnashing its fangs.

Miss Flint instinctively swung her leather-bound journal, with all the strength she could muster, and whacked the creature's head. It slammed against the wall, temporarily dazed.

The Doctor quickly assessed the beast's condition, calculating their chances of survival.

A thought struck him.

Oh, but of course! This beast wasn't alive – it was simply another machine abandoned in this junkyard; made of metal and motors. Which meant it did not have senses, but _sensors_.

What kind of sensors? Visual? Thermal? Auditory? Why else would it go for Miss Flint first?

The Doctor made a quick decision.

"Stand absolutely still!" he yelled. He pressed his finger against his lips. _Keep quiet!_

Already frozen with shock, Miss Flint bit her lip, desperately trying not to utter a sound.

As long as they kept absolutely still, and remained quiet, the machine wouldn't be able to detect them.

The creature regained its stance, angling its head to survey the corridor. It turned its perfectly moulded head towards them, and continued searching past them. It uttered a growl; a sound which was unmistakably synthesised.

It padded between them, polished metal paws ringing against the ship's flooring. It bent its olfactory sensors close to the floor, sniffing out chemical traces of its prey.

Miss Flint gasped – a tiny intake of breath. It was enough to attract the metal beast's attention. Her eyes widened in alarm – apologetic, but too late.

"Run!" the Doctor barked.

He grabbed Miss Flint's arm and pulled her down the corridor. The machine was right behind them.

This was not something they could outrun. It wouldn't lose its stamina. It wouldn't tire. It would keep going until it caught them.

They had to stop it before that happened.

Scrambling around a corner, the Doctor fired up the sonic screwdriver, hoping to muddle the machine's sensors. Needless to say, it wasn't one hundred percent successful.

However, Miss Flint seemed to have inadvertently placed them at an advantage. The machine was not following the most logical path. It took swinging lunges from side to side, sometimes staggering like a drunken man. Perhaps her leather bound diary had caused more damage than he had thought.

Miss Flint darted through a doorway. The Doctor noticed just in time, and dashed after her, helping her force the sliding doors shut.

Miss Flint held her breath, as the creature pummelled at the heavy metal doors. They were trapped in a small storage room. There was no other way out.

"Why did you come in here?" hissed the Doctor, pulling his torch out of his pocket.

"I don't know! I thought there might have been a way through," Miss Flint rasped.

"Obviously you were mistaken," the Doctor whispered back.

The machine's steel claws, suddenly piercing the door, glinted under the Doctor's torchlight.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Miss Flint wailed.

"Try to keep calm, Miss Flint," the Doctor assured her, as the thing's vicious claws tore through the metal again, "I have a plan."

"What?" Miss Flint asked, ready to hear anything from the Doctor.

"Uh…" the Doctor muttered, staring around the room.

"You don't have a plan! You don't have a plan!" Miss Flint spouted, clamping her eyes shut in distress.

"Give me a minute, and I will have," the Doctor grumbled.

"We don't _have_ a minute!" Miss Flint screeched; a noise accompanied by the creature's claws shredding the door.

"Very good," the Doctor inhaled sharply. "Question: what's attacking us? Answer: centuries-old machine, programmed as a perfect predator. It's also very shiny, isn't it, Miss Flint?"

The Doctor turned to her, a mystified expression adorning his features.

"Yes, but-"

"Conjecture: it's not working alone," the Doctor deduced.

"There's more of them?!"

"No – it's a pet," the Doctor guessed. "It probably belongs to _them!_ "

"Who?"

"The mercenaries who want the Cold Fusion Matrix – the most powerful energy source in the galaxy. I banished them from Earth, uh, a thousand years ago, when I hid the Matrix on the Scotsman. There's no way they could get back to Earth, but they seem to have cannibalised a time scoop, and brought the Scotsman to them, instead. Eventually, they'll come looking for us," the Doctor speedily explained.

"And now they've found us," Miss Flint realised.

"Well, their housecat has."

On cue, the machine burst through the weakened doorway, and roared at them.

"Nice kitty?" the Doctor purred.

"Doctor, what do we do?" Miss Flint screamed.

The Doctor leapt forward, and declared:

"I am the Doctor! I have the Cold Fusion Matrix! Come and get it, if you want it!"

The machine halted, and stared at them.

"As long as you let us go," he hastily added.

Miss Flint glanced at the Doctor nervously. The creature seemed to be processing the Doctor's offer.

Well, it had stopped trying to kill them – for now.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, in a roughly fabricated settlement, the Doctor's presence had not gone unnoticed.

A cyborg pushed its way past another mercenary, which was currently welding a razor-sharp blade to its arm.

The cyborg stood to attention before its leader.

"Commander," a cyborg grunted, "the enemy has arrived. The Doctor is here."

The leader turned around, wheezing as it hauled itself away from its perch. The thing's bloodshot eyes glanced down at its messenger.

If the cyborg hadn't been a cold-hearted killing machine, it might have quivered at the sight of its commander:

Its eyes seemed more like septic wounds than optical organs, narrowed into a spiteful squint.

Its jaw was no longer intact. One half hung limply, holding on only by ripped tendons and a strip of decaying flesh, giving the cyborg a permanent expression of apathy. The other half of its jaw had been repaired with a crudely cast chunk of metal, bolted into place.

The cyborg commander stood battered and corroded in its empire of rust and engine oil, a pale shadow of its former self. Hundreds of years of scavenging on this lifeless world had taken its toll. The cyborg was falling apart, despite an almost constant stream of repairs, as it waited to exact its revenge on the Doctor.

What little remained of its scar-like mouth twisted into a smile – a rare hint of emotion.

The cyborg leader lumbered over to a cracked monitor, hissing with static, and thumped it, until a picture displayed.

One of the predator units was relaying a live feed, cornering the Doctor alongside a female human.

The cyborg glared at its enemy, silently cursing. Despite the passage of centuries, the Doctor hadn't changed at all.

But it already knew that this was because the Doctor was Time Lord: a race of beings which possessed the ability to travel through time.

If the cyborgs could access the Cold Fusion Matrix, they too would possess this power, amongst a multitude of others.

It breathed a rasping question to the other cyborg: "Where is he?"

"We have pinged the predator unit's location," the subordinate responded, "they are at the furthest reaches of the dead zone."

The live feedback was cut, vanishing once more into the snowstorm of static.

"Leader, the feed has been lost."

"How has this occurred?" the leader roared.

"The female attacked the unit with a weapon. A crude weapon of low technology. The predator unit's sensors did not detect it."

The cyborg slammed its gauntlet into the display, which erupted in sparks.

"It is of no consequence. We shall initiate the attack immediately," the leader rasped. "Assemble the ships. The artefact is within our grasp…"

* * *

"Good work, Miss Flint," the Doctor uttered, pleasantly surprised.

Miss Flint grunted, wrenching the heel of her shoe from the crumpled machine's head. It issued a few dying sparks.

The Doctor waved the sonic screwdriver over the collapsed machine, probing its workings for some answers.

"It's some kind of customised garbage disposal unit."

"It doesn't belong to these… mercenaries?" Miss Flint surmised.

"No, they adapt and assimilate alien technology. Salvage anything that can improve them."

The Doctor continued his dissection of the unit, and uttered an amazed laugh, when he discovered something.

He pulled out a silver sphere from within the machine's casing.

"Look at that!" he cried. "Anti-grav globes!"

"I assume that's something we can use?" guessed Miss Flint.

"String a dozen of those up underneath the Scotsman, and we could lift her out of the snow!"

Miss Flint smiled. "You mean there really is a chance we could get out of here?"

The Doctor grinned. _Yes._

"Doctor?" Perkins voice called through the ship.

"Perkins!" the Doctor shouted back. "Are you all right?"

Perkins, with Liam tailing behind, hurtled into the doorway.

"Am _I_ all right?" he wheezed. "Are _you_ all right? We heard screaming."

"That wasn't me. That was her," the Doctor claimed, pointing at Miss Flint.

"I gathered that," retorted Perkins.

"We were attacked," Miss Flint explained curtly, quickly regaining her cold demeanour. She flicked her tangled hair aside.

"It's just as well I arrived when I did, then," Perkins muttered flippantly, casting a glance at the dead husk of the garbage disposal machine.

"Oh, I don't know…" the Doctor muttered, an impish grin on his face, "there's nothing like a bit of danger to get the blood pumping. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Flint?"

"Let's just get out of here," Miss Flint snapped, marching past them.

"We just need a hand removing the propulsion unit from a-" Perkins began.

The Doctor's eyes fell upon the controls in Liam's hands, and he leapt ecstatically to his feet.

"Is that an Isarian propulsion system? Excellent work, fellas, those things are brilliant!"

He clapped Liam on the arm, and looped the coil of cable over his shoulder.

"Do you think we should find something to carry all this back in?" suggested Liam.

"Ah, good idea," the Doctor agreed. "You two see if you can find something."

He nodded at Miss Flint, who seemed affronted at the idea of being sent on an errand.

Liam risked a glance at the infuriated Miss Flint with a knot in his stomach. He managed to offer her a civil smile. She did not seem enthralled.

Perkins waited until they had gone, before he spoke. The Doctor had been watching him, and could tell that there was something on his mind.

"What is it, Perkins?"

"You've changed, Doctor."

The Doctor's eyebrows twisted, from confusion, through to mirth.

"I do that."

"The last time we met, I was, quite frankly, concerned by your attitude. You didn't seem to care if people died." Perkins frowned, recalling their last adventure with some ill feeling.

The Doctor continued to stare at him, patiently awaiting the conclusion of his thoughts.

"I have to say, Doctor, I'm impressed that you're paying more attention to everyone. You even remembered all their names!"

The Doctor shrugged. "I don't really know what to say. I guess I had a good teacher."

The Doctor smiled, but as Perkins looked deep into his eyes – past all those defences the Doctor put up to confuse everyone else – he realised that the Doctor's eyes weren't smiling.

"Life is short, and uncertain. All you lot have is hope," the Doctor sighed. "I've lived so long, I sometimes forget that. I just need a reminder every now and again. Because yes, Perkins, you're right. Life _is_ built on hope."


	9. The Doctor Returns

The metal burned white hot, as Kelly did her best to seal the cracks in the cylinders. She sighed, as she watched the blue flame dance over the glowing metal. She could really have done with some more specialist equipment. And somewhere a bit warmer to work.

At least the heat from the blowtorch was keeping the chill off.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder, and almost jumped out of her skin – which is not the best reaction when one is wielding a blowtorch.

She shut off the flame, and whirled around, pushing the visor out of her face. Chris was staring at her, his eyebrows knotted in concern.

"Goodness me! Chris! Don't come sneaking up on me like that! You scared the life out of me!"

"I'm sorry," Chris spluttered, gulping in a deep breath of air. "I wouldn't have bothered you, but…"

"What is it?" Kelly asked, trying to calm him.

"I don't know if you could hear that…?"

"Hear what? What is it, Chris?"

"That unearthly screeching sound!" Chris finally managed to spout.

Kelly leapt to her feet, and clambered up out of the wreck of the Scotsman, Chris scampering after her.

"What if it's those creatures the Doctor was on about? Those things that want to kill us?" he exclaimed.

"We'd better hope not."

Kelly and Chris scrambled around the other side of the engine, and were just in time to witness the return of a gleeful Doctor.

They watched in astonishment, as the Doctor began to sled down the hill in a trailer the size of a small rowing boat.

The Doctor was yelling "Wheee!" at the top of his voice, as the trailer, crammed with bits and pieces of junk, sailed down the snowdrift, gathering momentum at an incredible pace.

Somehow, he had convinced Liam to ride down with him, and the young lad was sat in the back of the trailer, utterly shell-shocked.

Following behind them, at a much steadier pace, were Miss Flint and Perkins. Quite how Miss Flint managed to keep upright in those heels, they had no idea. Kelly half expected her to come tumbling down the snowdrift at any moment.

The trailer carved a snaking route through the snow, and the Doctor masterfully brought it to a halt, a few feet from the wheels of the Scotsman.

Without missing a beat, the Doctor leapt out of the trailer, bounded up to Chris, and bundled a pile of cabling into his arms, before clapping him heartily on the shoulders.

"Happy Christmas," he muttered jovially. "I've brought us some presents. Lovely."

Chris and Kelly shared an exasperated look. How did the man have so much energy? It was so cold; their fingers were starting to seize up. Yet the Doctor hadn't slowed down at all since they had arrived.

The Doctor dashed back to the trailer, and began to unload some more things.

Perkins caught up with him, and doubled over, gasping for breath. It was a mere second after he'd stood up again that the Doctor thrust the alien control panel into his hands.

"How are we doing?" he asked, looking cheerfully around at the team, "Are we on track?"

"Was that a pun, Doctor?" Perkins enquired with suspicion.

The Doctor grinned. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."

"It happens to the best of us," Perkins admitted.

"Well, Kelly and I have been working on the cylinder," Chris informed him.

"It's nearly done," Kelly added, "We've patched it up the best we can, with the tools we have. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do."

"That's good! Come on, let's keep going," the Doctor barked excitedly. "We can do it! Finish it tonight! Perkins and I will handle the alien tech."

"The what…?" Kelly exclaimed.

The Doctor tossed one of the anti-grav globes into the air, and caught it again, with a flourish.

"Just something to get the Scotsman moving again."

Kelly shook her head in disbelief.

The Doctor grinned at her.

"I'll leave the rest of the repairs in your very capable hands. It's what you _train_ ed for, after all."

"What is this?" commented Perkins. "Death by pun?"

"You could call it _pun_ ishment," quipped the Doctor, beaming in anticipation of a standing ovation. Or possibly a slow clap.

"Please stop," groaned Perkins.

* * *

The team returned to work on the engine; fixing connectors, testing pistons, and wiring up alien machinery, all of which took several hours.

The sky was already dark, but the Doctor could sense the evening drawing in. They did not have long, and he gave everyone a quick pep talk whenever he thought it was needed.

The Doctor had been deliberately vague about exactly how long they had before the horde of malicious cyborgs arrived, hoping that his infectious optimism would prevent an epidemic of panic attacks. The last thing he needed now was a mistake.

Even now, if everything went according to plan, the Doctor seriously doubted they could finish before morning.

But for the time being, thankfully, everyone believed him. They _would_ get back. They _would_ get home. Back in time for Christmas.

There was something about Christmastime that provided that extra incentive just to work a little harder now, so one could sit back and relax later. The Doctor wasn't sure what exactly it was. Was it a hunger for Christmas dinner? Was it the desire to be at home with family and friends?

It certainly wasn't the snow – there was enough of that here, slowing everyone down, as they trudged around the locomotive, trying to keep their feet warm.

But whatever it was, he was proud of them all. Perkins, who by rights, didn't even have to be here. Miss Flint, badgering everyone to give her jobs, so she could help out.

Even Chris, who was taking a quiet break inside the Scotsman's cab. The Doctor was a little concerned, and left Perkins working underneath the train to sit with him for a moment.

Every time he'd asked how he was doing, Chris had replied with a hearty 'oh yes, very-well-thanks."

But the Doctor could tell that his enthusiasm was a front. Every response had been a pale shadow of the last, and every time he thought he'd been alone, he had let his mask of optimistic drop.

Chris had caught on to the Doctor's line of questioning, and didn't feel the need to disguise his dejection when the Doctor joined him.

They both perched on the Scotsman's footplate, which Chris patted affectionately.

"She's a stubborn old girl," he muttered, "but she won't let us down."

The Doctor nodded sympathetically, before his eyebrows knotted in concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked, after a moment.

"Yes," Chris answered quietly.

The Doctor scrutinised him again, but left him a chance to talk.

Chris shrugged. "Thanks for trying to help."

The Doctor smiled, kindly. "It's what I do."

"From what I gather, you didn't have to be stuck here," Chris reasoned. "You knew the Scotsman was going get zipped off to another world."

The Doctor nodded. "There's a dangerous weapon on board this train. I can't let it fall into the wrong hands. And I certainly couldn't leave the four of you here."

Chris smiled, and thanked him again.

"I don't think I can do it," he admitted. "I don't know if I can keep going."

The Doctor frowned. "Why not?"

Chris looked up at him, his eyebrows twisted beseechingly.

"It doesn't matter if I don't make it back – I'm an old man! But I don't want the others stranded here. Kelly, and young Liam. I don't want to let them down."

The Doctor patted him gently on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Chris. You won't let anyone down. And don't you dare tell me it doesn't matter if you don't get back. Of course it matters! You're not old. You've got miles, yet."

Chris smiled politely. "I know you mean well, Doctor, but I _am_ old."

"No you're not."

"I'm in my eighties!" Chris protested

"I'm in my two-thousands!" the Doctor retorted.

Chris' eyes widened in surprise, and his teeth were displaying his disbelief.

It took him a moment to get over the shock once he realised that, no, the Doctor wasn't lying.

"Come on," the Doctor urged, giving him a friendly nudge, "it's getting late. Why don't we take a quick break? Gather everyone together."


	10. Ghost of Christmas Spirit

The Doctor and his team of engineers huddled together on the floor of the Scotsman's cab.

He pulled a few long-lasting candles from his pockets, lit them, and handed them out.

The six of them sat in silence for a few minutes, staring hesitantly at each other, their faces spookily illuminated by the flickering flames.

"So," the Doctor chirped, "Anyone doing anything exciting over Christmas?"

The only responses he received were a few glum stares, and evasive gazes. Perkins yawned, and quickly apologised.

"Kelly?" the Doctor encouraged. "Christmas dinner with _Mr Wilson?_ "

She shrugged. "Yeah, I s'pose."

The Doctor frowned, but optimistically continued around the circle.

"Chris? Will you be spending Christmas with anyone?"

Chris shook his head. "No. Just me. My wife passed away earlier in the year, you see?"

"Oh. I am sorry," the Doctor murmured.

"And I've all but fallen out of touch with the rest of my family," Chris continued, the misery evident in his voice, "I suppose that's what happens when you grow old."

The Doctor grunted. His optimism had waned quickly. He wasn't sure if they could keep going if everyone gave him reasons why they _didn't_ want to go home. That wouldn't help at all.

"Perkins? Christmas plans?" he ventured.

Perkins sighed. "Well, I don't actually celebrate Christmas. But I respect all your traditions and everything…"

Perkins trailed off, and seeing the dejected faces of the others around him, fell silent.

"What about you, Miss Flint?" the Doctor tried, "Is there anyone in your life you'll want to spend Christmas with?"

"No," she replied tersely.

"Don't you have a family to go home to?"

"No."

The Doctor blinked, struggling to spark a meaningful conversation.

"I've always been alone at Christmas," Miss Flint added sharply.

"Oh," the Doctor muttered sadly.

She dismissed his empathy.

"It's fine. I'm used to it."

The Doctor held his tongue, but he could see in Miss Flint's eyes that that wasn't true.

Perhaps it was a sentiment she had repeated so often that she had started to believe it.

"Liam?" the Doctor almost pleaded. "Tell me you have something to go back to?"

"No," he replied. "My parents are on holiday. They'll be away for like, two weeks. They won't even know I've been missing."

"What about your lass?" Chris asked.

"Yes. Won't you be with Georgina?" Kelly encouraged.

"No. I was gonna spend Christmas with her. But uh… we broke up."

"What, really?"

Liam nodded.

"We had a fight. It was stupid. We said things that… we shouldn't have. And she left me."

"Oh. That's a shame," Kelly spoke kindly.

"It's why I volunteered to do this work over Christmas. I was just… really lonely."

He looked at Kelly's concerned smile, and his eyes began to well up.

"I just want her back," Liam sobbed.

He couldn't bear to face anyone, and buried his head in his hands. Even Miss Flint was biting her lip in sympathy.

Kelly stroked his arm reassuringly, but that just made him cry harder.

"I'm sorry, Liam," she murmured.

"It doesn't matter," Liam croaked. "We're not getting back, are we? We're not going to make it home."

The Doctor's hearts sank.

This couldn't be happening. How would they save the Scotsman if they didn't even want to _go_ home?

He needed them to work together, for the sake of the universe.

There had to be something he could do. Something he could say to raise their spirits. Give them hope.

If only Clara were here. She'd know what to say to them. She always knew which words to use. She was always so kind, and very… human.

But that's what he needed to tap into – their humanity.

"Oh, come on!" the Doctor spoke up, expecting enraptured attention. Everyone looked at him, but they didn't seem enthused to hear what he was going to say.

"It's Christmas Eve! That one night of the year so full of potential, it's almost magical – beyond all scientific reason."

The Doctor peered at them all. The candles, arranged in a circle within theirs, continued to blaze, offering a little warmth.

"It's the best night of the year. So full of hope! And excitement! That quiet evening by the fireplace, so full of anticipation for the day yet to come."

Kelly smiled, and looked over at Chris, and Liam, who still looked rather down.

"Of course, Christmas Day itself is always a bit of a let-down," the Doctor muttered. "Earth gets invaded. Trapped in a dream world. My Christmas list is endless…"

Perkins coughed quietly, and the Doctor snapped out of his side-tracked train of thought.

"Don't you remember Christmas Eve as a child? Decorating your houses, singing carols? Leaving out sherry and a mince pie for Santa – and perhaps something for the reindeer as well?"

Miss Flint looked introspectively at the floor, lost in her memories.

"Don't you remember being so excited you can't sleep? As you wait for Santa to bring you presents. And then you race downstairs at the crack of dawn to see what beardy-weirdy left for you under the tree?"

His team of engineers shared puzzled looks over that last bit, but they understood the Doctor's message.

"It doesn't matter that you forget when you grow up. The important thing is that you believed!"

The Doctor beamed, bouncing with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning.

"That's all I need you to do. Believe! Believe that we really can get home. Believe in yourselves. In each other."

Kelly nodded. She spoke for all of them.

"We'll try."

* * *

With that last ounce of inspiration from the Doctor, the team pressed on. The Doctor and the engineers worked through the night. They were tired, and cold, and hungry, but they kept going. There wasn't time to rest.

Even the cups of tea that seemed to appear out of nowhere weren't enough to keep them warm, and twice Chris dropped a spanner, fumbling with one of the bolts on the side of the Scotsman.

They had discovered that the water tank was empty. They wouldn't be going anywhere without water, providing steam power.

That was, until Perkins pointed out the fact that they were completely surrounded by snow, and that would work perfectly well, provided it was actually 'normal' snow.

The Doctor confirmed that it was indeed water-based, and not merely fake snow, the debris of an alien spaceship, or anything like that.

Insisting she be of some use, Miss Flint began shovelling snow into the water tank.

Yes, the Doctor realised. As soon as they finished interfacing the alien electronics with the iron mechanisms, they would be good to go. They had a chance – as long as the cyborg mercenaries didn't find them before they could get away.

* * *

The cyborgs were several miles away. But they were coming.

They powered over the snow-dunes in heavily modified speeders; plasma jet engines, fused with scrap metal, hammered into aerodynamic shapes.

They would find the Doctor, and his human associates. They would kill them, and the artefact would be theirs, at last.

Once the Cold Fusion Matrix was within their grasp, they would possess infinite power. The universe would bow down to them, for all time. They would be unstoppable.


	11. Time is Running Out

_25_ _th_ _December 3017_

Perkins looked over at the Doctor, as Chris tried to light the firebox.

This was it. If the Scotsman didn't come to life now, it never would again.

Chris puffed his cheeks out, and wiped his forehead again. His face was covered with smudges of soot.

"I'm struggling to light it," he admitted, "I'm sorry."

Perkins rubbed his hands together nervously.

"Don't worry. We've still got time," the Doctor assured him.

Chris tried again, but he couldn't get the coals to burn.

He shook his head, and wiped his glasses, his face creased in dismay.

Perkins bit his lip.

"Any good ideas, Doctor?" he asked.

"We could try using the sonic," the Doctor suggested, "But I fear it may overload the Cold Fusion Matrix."

"Which wouldn't be very helpful, I imagine," Perkins muttered.

"No. There would be an implosion," the Doctor agreed, "Or an explosion. I'm not sure which."

"I'd quite like to avoid both," Perkins remarked.

The Doctor grunted in accordance.

"Well, I'd better go and see how Kelly and Miss Flint are getting on with the trailer," the Doctor decided, leaping out of the engine cab.

He turned back, and nodded at Chris. "If anyone can get this thing to work, it's you."

Chris gripped his jacket indignantly. "It's not a _thing_ , Doctor. She's the Scotsman!"

The Doctor grinned. "Yes. Yes, you're quite right."

His grin faded, as soon as he was out of Chris' sight. He loved Chris' passion for the Scotsman, but it wouldn't be of any use to them if they failed to light the fire.

The Doctor scampered around to the back of the train, where Kelly and Miss Flint were securing the trailer they had picked up in the junkyard to the coal tender.

"How are we doing?" the Doctor asked.

"Good. We're just finishing up," Kelly answered.

She looked exhausted. She had not slept for a couple of days, and like everyone else, she'd refused to get a few hours shut-eye during the night.

The Doctor nodded, searching the peak of the snowdrift for Liam, who was keeping watch, in case the approaching cyborgs took them by surprise.

"I'm glad to hear it," the Doctor said, looking at Kelly and Miss Flint with a hint of pride.

"Doctor!" Perkins called.

The Doctor raced back around to the cab, his hopes fuelled by the excitement in the engineer's voice.

He climbed up into the cab, and laughed.

Miraculously, the engine was working. As the fire began to burn fiercely, Perkins' alien control panel glimmered into life, adding tinges of green to the orange glow of the flames.

And there it was – the mighty beast roaring into life. The Scotsman reawakened from its slumber.

"It's alive!" the Doctor roared, fanatically.

He beamed up at Chris, who was elated, almost to the point of tears.

"I'm a bit choked now, actually."

"I think your Dad would be proud," the Doctor whispered to him.

Chris nodded, unable to speak.

"Look what we've done!" the Doctor urged them, clasping his hands together in delight. "We've fixed the Flying Scotsman, on our own, on an alien world!"

Kelly rushed up to the Doctor's side, and peered breathlessly into the cab, spotting the roaring flames in the firebox.

"It's working!" she squeaked.

She turned round, and called out. "Liam! Liam?"

Liam was still studying the landscape. He glanced back at them, but kept looking.

Something was wrong. Had he seen something?

Suddenly, Liam cried out, and began to sprint down the snowdrift, yelling.

"They're coming!"

Kelly mouth dropped open, and she glanced fearfully up at the Doctor.

"We need to go!" the Doctor roared, pulling Miss Flint into the cab. She accidentally swatted him with her diary as she struggled to scale the side of the train.

"Now, where's the steering wheel?" the Doctor demanded, taking control of the engine cab.

He looked up and down at the mass of pipes and valves snaking through the engine.

"It's a train, Doctor; it doesn't have a steering wheel," Perkins chided.

"No steering wheel?" queried the Doctor. "Are you sure? How does it…?"

The Doctor imitated the use of a steering wheel.

"I've wired up the Isarian propulsion unit to the anti-grav globes," Perkins informed him. "That's all we need to get the Scotsman moving. I thought you knew that," he glared sceptically at the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded, looking sheepish. "Yes! Good."

"I can fly the Scotsman. You'd better make sure those steel men don't slow us down." Perkins said.

"Uh, yes…" the Doctor muttered. "I have a plan for that. I hope."

He leapt down, to help Liam clamber quickly into the locomotive.

"Steelmen," Perkins mused, sharing a thoughtful look with Chris.

"That doesn't sound so bad," he decided, "It's better than 'cyborg-mercenaries-that-want-to-kill-us', anyway."

Chris held his gaze in bewilderment for a moment, until their current predicament dawned on him once more.

He grabbed a dusty coal shovel, and thrust it into Liam's hands.

Liam's instincts were screaming at him to start panicking, but he resisted. They didn't have time to panic.

"Start shovelling, lad. Best keep the fire stoked."

"Oh. Yes, sir," he hastily replied, immediately getting to work.

They each had to play a part. Working together as a well-oiled machine, rather like the Scotsman, which was already puffing into action. Huge clouds of steam erupted from the chimney, building up momentum, energy.

Whilst Liam was acting as the fireman, Chris and Kelly were tending to the mechanical workings of the engine, making sure the temperature and pressure were building up nicely.

Perkins manned the Isarian control panel, feverishly tapping the touchscreen pads, and scrutinising the stream of information which blossomed from each jab of a finger.

Miss Flint remained in the narrow corridor of the coal tender, mainly trying to keep out of everyone's way.

The Doctor hung on the footplate outside the engine cab, watching in trepidation as the Steelmen swarmed in the sky above them, twisting and circling like a cloud of angry wasps.

"Perkins!" the Doctor roared. "Full steam ahead?"

"Yes, Doctor," Perkins called back, stabbing furiously at the control panel. "I'm doing my best."

The Doctor peered up at the armada of cyborgs, bearing down upon them. There were fifty or more scavenged ships, each heavily armed with stolen weapons.

"Let's see what the old girl can do," Perkins grunted, as the entire locomotive shuddered.

The cab was rattling so violently, Chris was sure they were going to be shaken to pieces, before they could even begin.

The cyborg leader's grating voice echoed across the valley, freezing the Doctor's team in horror.

"Surrender the artefact now, and we may yet show mercy."

The Doctor was met with a couple of panicked expressions. He stuck his head back into the cab, to reassure his team.

"Don't listen to them. If they get hold of the artefact, they won't hesitate to kill us all."

Well, he had not been reassuring, exactly. Encouraging, perhaps. He had certainly inspired some determination to escape from their pursuers, judging by the fearful glances he received in return.

He turned away, and surveyed the landscape once more.

They just needed to escape from the area, now teeming with Steelmen. If they travelled far enough out of the range of the time scoop, they would snap back to the Scotsman's world and time.

At least, that was the theory.

With one last bone-shattering shudder, the Scotsman jolted. It would have knocked the Doctor from the Scotsman's cab, if it weren't for his quick reflexes; he managed to grab hold of a pipe just before he fell.

The Scotsman began to move. Not forwards – but upwards!

The Flying Scotsman was finally flying! The mighty engine took off, and the Doctor laughed.

"Oh, Nigel! You beauty!" the Doctor roared proudly.

Inside the engine cab, the crew dropped their tools for a moment, dumbfounded.

Perkins grinned, as he watched his friends' reactions.

Chris and Kelly were hanging onto each other for dear life, breathless as the Scotsman began to move.

Liam laughed, clutching locks of his curled hair, awestruck.

"This is daft…" he uttered, "It's like Back to the Future!"

Perkins shot him a puzzled expression.

"The train?" Liam explained.

Perkins shook his head, none the wiser; Liam's pop culture references lost on him.

"Never mind."

"Right…" agreed Perkins, cranking up a slider on the control panel.

The thunder of steam pumping through the engine grew so loud, it smothered all other noise.

"Oh, this is just daft!" Liam exclaimed again. His words drowned in the cacophony.

The Doctor craned his head, trying to calculate the cyborgs' next move.

The Steelmen could tell that something was happening.

The cyborg leader gave the order, with a silent nod of its steel-plated head.

Their formation of ships began to descend; a guillotine slicing through the air, determined to stop the Flying Scotsman in its tracks.


	12. The Scotsman Flies Anyway

The Flying Scotsman picked up speed, and the Doctor tightened his grip on the side of the engine, as the wind rushed through his hair.

They were shunting faster and faster, accelerating to something like 80 miles an hour in just a few seconds. The Isarian propulsion system really packed a punch.

Soon, the attacking Steelmen were left behind, their vicious circle dissolving, as they picked up the pursuit.

The Doctor twisted back to examine the sky ahead, as the Scotsman climbed higher.

Despite the bitterly cold wind blasting his face, he had never experienced a flight quite as exhilarating as this.

The whistle blew, and the Doctor's hearts soared.

He saw Chris give him the thumbs-up though the cab look-out. He grinned back.

He probably looked like a maniac, clinging to the outside of a speeding locomotive flying through the air – but he was loving it!

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the fastest of the cyborgs' ships zooming closer. They had been unprepared for the Scotsman's speed at first, but now they were catching up.

The Doctor clambered back into the cab.

"We need to go faster!"

"I'm giving her all she's got, Doctor!" Perkins protested. "If I force any more power through the system, it could blow!"

"This engine isn't really built for this kind of speed," Chris agreed.

The Doctor shrugged. "Well, that's too bad. It's going to have to shift a lot faster than this."

"I don't think that's possible!" Perkins argued.

"We've got no choice," the Doctor urged. "Besides, the Scotsman was the first locomotive to go quicker than 100 miles per hour. It'll have no problem."

"I don't mean to disappoint, Doctor, but this really isn't the time for a history lesson!" Perkins yelled, wrestling with the battered control panel.

"We'll just have to do the best we can," Kelly resolved.

There was a great clang, which rocked the train.

The Doctor thrust his head out of the cab, to find out what was going on. He ducked just in time, as a laser bolt zinged off the side of the engine, narrowly missing him.

"Evasive action!" he cried. "We're under fire!"

"Great…" Perkins muttered, swinging the engine to the left, dodging a barrage of lasers. "I _knew_ this would happen."

Chris stumbled, and Kelly quickly grabbed his arm to steady him.

"Oh, thanks," he mumbled, adjusting his glasses, which had rather comically slipped down his nose.

"Doctor!" Liam grabbed his attention, motioning towards the coal tender.

The Doctor peered into the corridor. Miss Flint was hunched on the floor, her arms wrapped around her head.

He clapped Liam on the shoulder, quickly thanking him.

The Doctor raced over, and knelt down by Miss Flint's side.

She was having a panic attack: taking sharp, struggling breaths, as she tried to block out the world around her.

"Miss Flint!" the Doctor urged. "Miss Flint?"

It was a moment before she could look at him.

There were more deafening bangs, as the Scotsman was assaulted by the Steelmen, and Miss Flint jumped.

"Listen to me," the Doctor spoke calmly, focusing Miss Flint's attention on him.

"You're okay. Let's just take a few deep breaths."

"We're under attack, aren't we?" Miss Flint spouted. "And there's nothing I can do. I'm just what they say I am, aren't I? A pen-pusher. I deal with logistics and administration. What use is that now?"

She looked up at the Doctor, who shot her a kind, yet disapproving stare.

"Logistics and administration are very important," he reasoned, "Not everyone can do that."

"I can't do anything," she moaned.

"Miss Flint…" the Doctor began gently.

"I'm useless."

The Doctor frowned. He raised his voice slightly. " _Miss Flint_."

She looked up at him. The Doctor's eyes were warm, not spiteful. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't dismissing her.

For the first time in a long time, someone was showing her genuine kindness.

"Who is Miss Flint, really?" he asked. "A mask? Is it the face you show to the world to hide your own?"

Miss Flint sighed, holding back tears.

"The tough businesswoman, trying to hold her own in a world she doesn't quite fit into?"

She looked glumly away. Clearly, the Doctor had struck a chord.

"You can't hide your true feelings forever. You have to accept them."

The Doctor smiled, and Miss Flint bit her lip, her emotions overwhelming her.

"What's your name?" the Doctor asked, "Your first name?"

"Marigold," she mumbled.

"Well, Marigold, I have a task for you. Do you think you can do that?"

She nodded.

"Any minute now, the… 'Steelmen' are going to board this train. I need you to help me stop them."

"How?"

The Doctor pulled the sonic screwdriver from his jacket, and presented it to her.

She studied it, confused.

"With this. My sonic screwdriver."

"But what do I do with it?"

The Doctor's eyes twinkled. "Great things. Your imagination's your only limit. And I think, Marigold Flint, you're brilliant. Far more brilliant than you give yourself credit for."

Miss Flint clasped the sonic, and accepted it.

"Be careful with it. It's very special to me."

She nodded, and stood up.

She still wasn't sure what to do, but the Doctor's faith had given her determination. She didn't want to let him down.

* * *

The Steelmen began to zoom alongside the Scotsman, as it charged across the landscape.

Blasts of brightly coloured lasers criss-crossed through the air.

Several shots hit their target, rocking the flying train.

The Doctor staggered back into the cab, bracing himself against the narrow walls of the coal tender.

He stumbled as the train plunged into a nosedive.

Liam cried out in alarm, as he tumbled into a heap of coal.

"Perkins?" roared the Doctor. "What's…?"

The Doctor faltered, as he realised with an uncomfortable lurch that Perkins had crumpled to the floor of the Scotsman's cab.

"Perkins!" Kelly yelled, rushing to his side.

He was injured – badly. His face contorted in pain, although he was trying not to show it.

The Doctor didn't have time to find out what had happened, and although he hated it, he didn't have time to make sure Perkins was okay.

A quick glance out of the cab lookout told him the Scotsman was hurtling towards the rocky, snow-covered ground.

In a few seconds, they would smash against the ground, and this would all have been for nothing. They would just be another wreck in this desolate world of scrap steel.

The Doctor leapt to the control panel, and quickly examined the alien readouts.

He could read the writing, but that didn't mean he understood it all. His train-flying experience was shockingly limited.

He would have to play by ear.

Wrestling with the touchscreen pad, the Doctor tried to right the train.

He was fighting physics. This train was not designed for flight – it resisted every move he made.

The g-forces pressed against his body as he pulled the Scotsman sharply upwards; a dozen invisible hands trying to tear him away from the control panel.

His hearts stopped for a second, as the wheels of the mighty engine clipped a mountain peak.

The Doctor risked a glance down at his feet, where Kelly and Liam were tending to Perkins.

There was a gaping hole in his arm, wisps of smoke rising from the blackened flesh. It looked nasty.

His best guess was that Perkins had been hit by a ricocheting laser blast.

"I… I don't know what to do," Kelly muttered in panic, glancing up at the Doctor in desperation.

"It's only a laser burn," Perkins gasped, "I'll be fine. Those things…"

Perkins' teeth clenched shut, as he grunted in agony.

"They cauterise themselves…" he managed to finish.

"Hang on in there, Perkins!" the Doctor growled.

"It's alright, Doctor," Perkins grumbled, "I've had worse…"

"Really?"

Perkins convulsed again, and he clutched his arm tightly, screwing his eyes up.

"No, p'raps not."

"You'll be fine, though?" asked Chris, taking his eyes off the engine for a moment.

"Well, I certainly hope so!" retorted Perkins, a little more bitterly than he intended.

The Doctor gritted his teeth, noticing one of the Steelmens' shuttles veering towards them.

He slid his fingers across the control panel, steering the engine away from their attackers.

He had gotten Perkins into this mess. It was his fault his friend was here. He couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

The Steelmen would pay if anything happened to him.


	13. End of the Line

The Flying Scotsman jerked violently.

Miss Flint peered out of the round lookouts in the back of the coal tender.

There was a _thunk,_ as another cable speared the wall.

She realised in horror that the Steelmen were skewering the Scotsman with some kind of boarding cables.

Already, they were beginning to hook up handlebar-like devices – ready to zip-line down to the train.

"Oh, no," she wailed, "Doctor!"

"I'm a little busy, Miss Flint," the Doctor yelled back, "Can't you handle it?"

She wasn't sure what was going on in the cab, save that the Doctor seemed to be manning the controls. She would have to do this herself.

She had to stop the Steelmen from boarding the Scotsmen. The others were depending on her.

Miss Flint raced to the rear of the coal tender.

Despite reservations that what she was about to do was a terrible idea, she released the lock, and the door to the coal tender flew open.

The noise of the rushing air outside seemed to drown her, and she felt a moment of nauseating dizziness when she made the mistake of looking down at the snow-covered ground rushing away far below.

Grabbing onto a steel pipe for dear life, she leaned out of the train, and held the sonic screwdriver out.

She pressed the button on the Doctor's device, and pointed it at one of the cables.

The screwdriver buzzed, and the cable twanged; the boarding ship veered away with the sudden release of tension, and crashed straight into another vehicle.

Miss Flint gasped; exhilarated by her success, yet also scared out of her wits.

Her resolution growing, Miss Flint aimed the sonic at the second cable. It snapped, releasing the train from the cyborgs' grasp.

The sonic screwdriver was working wonders!

She dreaded the thought of the thing slipping out of her hand, and falling away into the tumultuous snowstorm below them.

She pulled herself back into the coal tender, just as another harpoon penetrated the wall, its vicious spike inches from her head.

This time, Miss Flint was ready, and wasted no time in severing the line.

* * *

The Doctor shuffled aside, as Perkins hauled himself to his feet.

He was weak, and more than a little shocked, but otherwise okay. His wound wasn't bleeding, but it looked incredibly painful.

Perkins reached for the control panel.

"I can handle that, Doctor."

"No," the Doctor snapped, gently pulling Perkins back.

"Miss Flint's in trouble," called Chris.

The Doctor twisted round.

The Steelmen were aboard – and one of them had grabbed Miss Flint.

By the looks of it, more of them had tried to board the train, but Miss Flint had caught them out as they clambered over the trailer, lashed to the back of the coal tender.

She'd used the sonic screwdriver to detach the trailer, and it had fallen away, taking half a dozen cyborgs with it.

But one had managed to jump aboard, wrapping a mechanical arm around her, and began advancing forwards.

"Doctor, I can handle it," Perkins insisted, forcing the Doctor aside, and retaking control of the Scotsman.

The Doctor wanted to argue, but it wasn't a priority right now.

He stepped carefully towards the cyborg, his hands raised in caution.

Liam and Kelly watched in alarm, keeping out of the way.

"Let her go," the Doctor demanded.

"I will not," the cyborg snarled, pushing a gun to Miss Flint's cheek.

It took him a moment to realise that the Steelman wasn't _holding_ a gun – where its hand should have been _was_ a gun.

The Doctor considered the practicality of this for a moment, but couldn't see any positives that came from having a gun for a hand. How do you drink tea? How do you hold your cutlery? And how do you tie your shoelaces without blowing your foot off?

He expressed his concerns to the mercenary, but it wasn't impressed.

"Silence!" it roared.

"Look, leave her alone, and I'll let you have what you came for," the Doctor pleaded.

"I do not believe you," the Steelman hissed, its voice like an ejection of steam, "You have tricked us before."

"There is actually one thing I'd quite like to point out," the Doctor continued.

"What is that?"

"You don't actually know what's inside that thing."

The cyborg narrowed its gangrenous eyes.

"You think that little hard drive contains all the information you need for unlimited power. But no-ones looked at it for millennia. For all you know, it might just contain the recipe for gazpacho soup."

"You will give it to us!"

"Well, I can give you the recipe…"

Whilst the Doctor was keeping the cyborg talking, Kelly had sneaked up behind it, brandishing a shovel.

She swiped at the cables cascading out of the cyborg's back, and it uttered a roar of anger, mixed with pain, as coolant gas sprayed into the cab.

The Doctor grabbed Miss Flint's hands, and pulled her away, as the cyborg crumpled to the floor, wheezing its last breaths.

"I think I'd better warn you, Doctor," Perkins called, "the Steelmen have set up a blockade ahead of us."

The Doctor glanced out of the lookouts. Amidst the flurrying snowstorm, a huge barrier, composed of swarms of steel ships, was drawing together, blocking their flight path.

"We can go around that, can't we?" the Doctor muttered.

"There is another thing," Perkins grunted.

"What?"

"The brakes aren't working."

"Oh, who cares?" the Doctor moaned, "We weren't going to use them anyway."

The Scotsman was hurtling towards the blockade, which had begun to open fire on them.

"We're going too fast!" Perkins shouted.

"We're going to crash!" Liam whined.

"Hard a-starboard!" the Doctor yelled. "I'm not letting that artefact fall into their hands."

The Doctor, along with Liam and Miss Flint, who weren't holding onto anything, stumbled as the Scotsman careered to the side. The steam engine dodged a torrent of laser fire, and dipped below the bulk of the Steelmen's ships.

But it wasn't enough.

The Scotsman collided with one of the cyborg ships. Shark-like fins protruding from the hull scratched at the locomotive's metal, with an awful sound.

The engine's occupants were jolted forwards as they struck the other ship, and the humans shrieked in terror.

The crash slowed them down, and the Steelman renewed their assault, battering them from all sides.

Perkins hit the accelerator once more, and they tore through the blockade.

But the clanging footfalls on the roof of the Scotsman told them that they had not escaped unscathed.

"Oh, no…" muttered Kelly.

The Steelmen were boarding.

Within seconds, the Steelmen were all over them, thrusting their energy weapons into the faces of the crew.

Liam, and the others, raised their hands.

They were completely surrounded. Outnumbered. Outgunned.

The chase was over.

"Perkins, how long until we're out of range?" the Doctor quietly asked.

"I'd say only a couple more minutes."

"We're so close!"

The leader of the Steelmen pushed its way through its subordinates, and came face to face with the Doctor.

"At last," the cyborg growled. "We have you at our mercy, Doctor."

The Doctor pulled a nonplussed expression. "Is that so?"

"You have lost, Doctor. Give us the artefact."

The Doctor shrugged. "I can't." He waved offhandedly at the engine around him. "It's literally part of the train."

"Then we will tear this contraption apart piece by piece."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, his innocent expression dropping into a grim mask.

Kelly spotted Chris' face flushing red as he fumed silently. She knew that he loved the Flying Scotsman more than anything, and it would break his heart to see it destroyed.

"The artefact will be ours," the leader roared, clenching its gauntleted fist in triumph.

"Over my dead body," the Doctor grunted.

"I will be happy to accommodate you," the Steelman laughed. "We will kill all of you."

The Doctor stood resolutely, trying to draw the attention of the cyborgs away from the fearful faces of his human friends.

"What is your old commerce?" the cyborg leader asked.

The Doctor frowned, deciphering the cyborg's words for a second.

"Don't you mean custom?" he muttered under his breath.

"Any last words?" the Steelman growled.

The Doctor perked up, and grinned.

"Oh yes, quite a few, actually. My favourite is _'I don't want to go!'_ "

"Doctor!" Miss Flint hissed.

"Sorry! Yes!" the Doctor quickly drew himself back to the present, and waved at the space around him.

"Do you know where you are? Do you know what you're standing in?"

The cyborg leader grimaced at him. Its shoulders twitched in indifference.

The Doctor grinned, patting the Scotsman's shuddering engine.

He just needed to play for time. Any second now, and they would be back on Earth. They would be home.

"No? I'll tell you. This is the number 4472 locomotive, known as the Flying Scotsman. Designed by Sir Nigel Gresley, and built in nineteen twenty-three. It linked the capitals of England and Scotland, in a journey that took only seven hours – record time."

The Doctor span around, gesturing wildly, despite the cramped surroundings.

"Now, the Scotsman was to be scrapped in 1963. But a couple of very rich people couldn't bear to let it go. It was protected, and restored. Decades of refurbishment! Completely regenerated, you might say. It's gotten to the stage where none of the original parts are the same as they were when it was built."

The cyborg leader rolled its yellowing eyes, and raised its weapon at the Doctor again.

The Doctor leapt right up to the mechanical man, so close that he was beyond the range of its weapon.

"But that's not the point," he continued, "Because the Flying Scotsman isn't the train. It's an idea. And ideas are powerful."

He leaned closer to the Steelman, his nose almost touching its metal jaw.

"More powerful than your silly little desire to take over the universe. And these people!"

The Doctor wheeled away again, tapping Chris lightly on the arm.

"Their hopes, and dreams – their lives depend on this idea. And do you know what this idea says?"

The Doctor turned back to the mercenaries, and began to roar: "You're not going to take that away from them. Not today. Not ever!"

The Doctor's resounding speech reached a crescendo, and he stood there, his teeth bared.

"Ah," muttered the Doctor softly, "we're still here."

The cyborg leader continued to glare at him with a grimace.

"Sorry," the Doctor apologised to the mercenaries, "I kind of expected my plan to have… uh… worked."

The Doctor twisted round, and hissed: "Perkins! Why are we still here?"

"You tell me! It was your plan!" Perkins exclaimed.

The cyborg leader grinned, smugly.

"It is time for you to die. Alongside your human associates."

"Oh-my-god…" breathed Liam, trying to take a step back – but there was nowhere to go. There was no escape.

"You have fought your last battle, Doctor. Let it be known that you died _running away_."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," the Doctor muttered proudly.

"Kill them," the cyborg ordered.

The Doctor gritted his teeth, as the mercenaries raised their weapons, and began to fire.

He closed his eyes.


	14. Flying Home for Christmas

_25_ _th_ _December 2014_

There was a blast of warm air – the kind you get when you enter a well heated building. It fills the sinuses, momentarily clogging the nose.

They were back.

The Steelmen had gone. Vanished; left behind in their world.

Raw sunlight bled through the engine cab's lookouts, extinguishing the cold darkness of the Steelmen's world.

"Welcome home, Scottie," the Doctor spoke softly, taking a deep breath of the cold, earthly air.

Kelly was the first to laugh with relief. Bundles of overjoyed hugs were shared. Even the Doctor, who was usually mistrustful of a hug, was caught up in the elation of the others.

"We've done it!" cried Chris. "By god, we've done it!"

The Doctor, with Liam at his side, leaned out of the locomotive, staring at the world below them. They were soaring just above the clouds, an ocean of fluffy white cotton wool all around the Scotsman, glistening in the dawning sun. Up here, the atmosphere was still, unfiltered – silent.

The Doctor grinned, as he observed Liam's wide-eyed amazement, drinking in the sight; the colour. Tinges of salmon pinks, and tangerine oranges highlighted the wispy clouds, shimmering as the sun rose in the icy blue sky.

The Doctor twisted round. Kelly, Chris and Miss Flint were gazing out the other side of the Scotsman, chattering excitedly, leaving Perkins' watchful eye tending the engine.

"Take her down, Perkins," the Doctor ordered.

"You got it, Doctor," Perkins replied heartily, with a small salute.

The Flying Scotsman dipped, and ploughed through the atmosphere. Great belches of grey steam from the engine blended with the white cloud, swirling in grand eddies.

The great locomotive blew a triumphant whistle, supported by the cheering engineers, as the clouds ascended above them.

A vision of a city formed beneath them. Spires, and domes dominated the skyline, and a castle atop a hill rose above the buildings.

"Is that… are we in Edinburgh?" Liam asked.

"Of course!" exclaimed the Doctor. "It's perfect! The Flying Scotsman's finally reached its destination. Non-stop back to Earth!"

It took Liam a few minutes, as the Scotsman soared above the Earth, to comprehend the sight before his eyes. To comprehend the fact that they were home.

"I can't believe that worked," Liam admitted, "I can't believe we made it."

"Yes you can," the Doctor encouraged, "it's Christmas."

Liam laughed. The Doctor could see in his eyes the same sadness he had expressed the night before, briefly engulfed in the exhilaration of the moment. But very slowly, as he grew accustomed to the sight of the buildings and the trees gliding past them, the sadness returned.

"Don't look like that," the Doctor moaned, giving him a little pat on the arm.

"Like what?" Liam retorted, confused.

"With the eyes. I don't know how you humans do it. You look sad, but you don't look sad at the same time."

Liam shrugged. "Well, I guess it's just… it's gonna be different this year. Now that she's… I'll be… I'm gonna miss her."

"I know," the Doctor spoke gently, laying a consoling hand on Liam's shoulder.

Liam broke out of his downcast demeanour when Miss Flint tapped him on the shoulder.

"Miss Flint?"

"About that pay rise…" Miss Flint began, looking sternly at him, "Of course you can have it."

"Th-thanks, Miss Flint," Liam spluttered, a wide grin enlightening his features.

"If I am a Scrooge, as you say, it seems I have seen my ghost of Christmas future," Miss Flint remarked.

"Sorry about that," Liam apologised, glancing nervously down at his feet, "I really didn't mean…"

"Don't worry," Miss Flint dismissed him with a slight smile, "I've heard worse."

Liam nodded.

"How are we going to explain all this to everyone?" Kelly asked. "A great big steam train, flying through the air on Christmas Day?"

The Doctor thrust his hands into his pockets, sucking in the morning air through his teeth. "Say way as usual, I expect."

Kelly frowned, fixing the Doctor with an inquisitive stare. "How do you mean?"

The Doctor shrugged. "How did you explain a spaceship almost crashing into Buckingham Palace a few years ago?"

Kelly shook her head. "What spaceship?"

"Hmm…" the Doctor mused, with a thinly veiled smirk.

"Well, I shouldn't worry about the administration," hinted Miss Flint. "I'm sure I can think of another excuse for why the restoration project has been delayed yet again."

Miss Flint, for the first time, earned a genuine smile from Kelly. And she wasn't entirely sure how to respond. She didn't get many smiles.

"But that's great, Miss Flint. Thank you!" Chris expressed wholeheartedly.

"Well, it's… no problem," Miss Flint muttered awkwardly.

She quickly sidled away, before she got too flustered, and joined the Doctor and Perkins at the control panel.

Perkins gave her a wink. "Well done, Miss Flint. Nice work back there."

She dismissed his courteousness with a shy shrug, and delved into her jacket pocket for the sonic screwdriver.

"Ah!" the Doctor exclaimed excitedly.

"You'll want this back, I assume?"

The Doctor plucked his device from her hands, with a childish grin.

"Yes, I would. Thanks for looking after it."

Miss Flint smiled.

"Thank you, Doctor…" she said quietly, "for believing in me."

"Oh, no, _Marigold Flint_ , thank you," the Doctor quickly returned, "for believing in yourself."

They were distracted by Kelly loudly uttering her dismay.

"We can't have that!" Kelly exclaimed. "I'm not having you two sitting at home on your own. Not on Christmas day! You're both coming round for Christmas dinner with me."

Chris and Liam shared a bemused look.

"How can we refuse?" Chris muttered.

"That would be amazing, Kelly," Liam thanked her.

Kelly turned round, and caught Miss Flint's eye.

"You can come along too, if you like, Miss Flint," Kelly offered.

Miss Flint sighed, hesitating for a moment.

The Doctor watched the two of them, his eyebrows knotted in bemusement.

He could see that Miss Flint was tempted by the offer. Miss Marigold Flint seemed unsure how to respond. The Doctor wondered if her cold demeanour was merely masking her loneliness. She was perhaps, for the first time in a long time, among friends.

Miss Flint smiled. "Thank you, Kelly. But… no thanks."

"Oh. You sure? If you change your mind…"

"I won't."

Kelly nodded, a little unsure of what to make of Miss Flint's abrupt response. However, she let it pass.

"What about you, Perkins? Do you have anywhere to go for Christmas?" the Doctor asked. "There's always room in the TARDIS, if you want. I would be honoured by your company."

Perkins shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Doctor. If you could drop me off at this new place you promised me, that would be great? I was really looking forward to working on a few ideas in that laboratory."

The Doctor nodded understandingly.

"Although I wouldn't mind a quick look around here, first. It's not every day one gets to set foot in the past."

"No, not every day," agreed the Doctor.

"But what about you, Doctor?" Perkins asked suddenly. "What are you going to do now?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I don't know. You know me."

"Yes, I suppose I do," Perkins concurred. "Just promise me you won't be alone."

The Doctor regarded Perkins for a moment, astonished that the engineer could read him so well.

"Okay," he agreed, quietly.

Perkins nodded. His eyes revealed that he wasn't entirely convinced the Doctor would keep that promise.

But he didn't get a chance to question it; Chris tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned round.

"Will you be able to get us home?" he asked.

"Home?" Perkins queried. "Where would that be?"

"Manchester," Chris enlightened him.

"Manchester?" Perkins frowned. "Where's that?"

"You don't know where Manchester is?" chided Chris.

"I must admit, I'm not that familiar with classical Earth geography. Is it north, or south of here?"

"We're in Scotland," the Doctor declared, "Everywhere's south of here."

"No, the real question is, will we have anywhere to land?" Liam chipped in.

"How do we land a train?" Kelly asked.

"I'm not sure. The brakes aren't working," Chris grumbled.

"Don't tell me you've never landed a train before!" Perkins exclaimed. "What kind of engineers are you?"

Miss Flint laughed at the absurdity of their conversation, and the others threw her a look of astonishment, which did nothing to quell her amusement.

The Doctor stood back, and watched as they began discussing their plans for the rest of the day.

Humans never ceased to amaze him. They were all different. All exceptional, in their own way.

" _Humans…_ " the Doctor muttered fondly.

They all reminded him why he was the Doctor, travelling the universe in a borrowed TARDIS, stuck as an old blue police box.

And why he would keep fighting, until his last breath. Why he would keep flying, until he fell.

For them.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 **Incidentally, a Happy Christmas to all of you reading this. (If indeed, it is still Christmas when you read this.) I hope you've enjoyed it.**

 **If you'd like to read more, please consider checking out my other Twelfth Doctor adventures.**

 **Also, a special thanks to my reviewers – I always appreciate feedback.**


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